Flight. 

Always in transit
Never settling

Moving shifting changing  

Like red blood cells 

Always on the road

Running down the veins  

Nowhere to call home 

Thrown from house to house 

Personal spaces transform into changing rooms

And the heart is a revolving door 

Opening to nothing and closing to everything 

– 

When can I stay and embrace, 

Without taking flight from every borrowed nest? 

What happens to birds that are tired of flying, I wonder, and why we never hear of them? 

Then, I realise that buried wings cannot share tales. 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s