It is impossible for me
to market myself as a bird,
because one day you wake-up,
instinctively wanting…
to be a bird.
You grow feathers of prominent red,
streaks in bold black.
Your lips pucker and harden,
triangle themselves into a beak.
A tune from another world bellows,
inherently,
from the lungs inside your tiny ribcage.
Oh, and that hopeful fast beating heart—
I believe… I believe…
Set-off to fly!
–
Disenchanted-
Gaze downward, see,
feet planted-firmly
on the ground.
This is the dream I was sold,
by the angels
to dream.
And the devil,
he stole my talons
one digit at a time.
Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2015 All Rights Reserved
