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,


from the lungs inside your tiny ribcage.

Oh, and that hopeful fast beating heart—

I believe… I believe…

Set-off to fly!


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