A young bird
Flying in fits of freedom
Eliciting envious eruptions from onlookers.
Her White wings were waters of happiness
We wet our throats with.
Her very embrace was sunlight,
Dispelling dominating darkness.
Fine wine aging
Developed peacock stride,
And a dove’s purity.
The gem every hunter dreamed of absconding with,
Placing in gilded cages of gratification.
Even I wanted to capture her,
As selfish as it seems.
I wanted to shield her,
Be the vaccine for the diseased world around us
Or so I rationalized it.
I tried to use my words to ensnare her,
But the bird, loving its liberty
Flew into the world.
It was then I learned that
If I loved this bird, I must douse embers of desire
I must let her go.
I could only watch as the world
Became a malignant tumor, corrupting her from the
Inside out.
White wings, shining with purity,
Now broken,
Blackened with sludge of the World.
No longer to escape her pursuers,
Passed from pedestal to pedestal.
Further traversing contamination’s concourse
I wish I were a more charismatic hunter.
Perhaps I could have prevented her from crumbling in
Fate’s unforgiving fist.
But I am mere mortal,
I cannot forge a blade strong enough to slay the will of gods,
I am a mere spectator in their stage production
But still I lament for the Feathered One,
Her flight robbed by the conniving cosmos.
But maybe if more birds come,
She can teach them to retain their flight.
Maybe.
Just maybe ...
YOU ARE READING
Romantically Incorrect
PoetryBorn, raised, and currently living in Detroit, Michigan, Morgan Coby is a combination of many different things around him: the gritty realities of the city where he dwells, and the wondrous idealism from the fictional worlds of stories, cartoons, an...
