There's a small tuft of white, entering my room
Whose form sharpens as I put on my glasses,
Gliding in the air without doubt or care
Feeling the drift of my words, just
Slowly shifting, adapting to change.
Yet when it settles on the solid floor,
Fragility and innocence weakening its resolve
To fly and fly higher than it soared before,
White melting, shedding a plumage
That left it sickled, deaf to sound,
Trapped from skies, left beaten on the ground.
Protruding from a faded calamus
Were daggers in thousands, wavering barbs
A last defence, no sight of soft touch to be seen.
And I'd made the mistake of grabbing it,
Only to release quickly, and see
Droplets of blood emerge
From the shallows
Of my palm.
YOU ARE READING
Silence in the Walls
PoetryThis is for those who lost or found their voices. This is for those who could and could not breathe. This is for anyone who is stuck or escaped the dismal abyss of all-consuming emptiness. This is a reminder; a representation of the hardships we co...
