White, neat, feather wings,
Still too young to fly.
Not a touch of bee's sting,
Like a small flower, so fragile.
Covered in a massive bubble,
Oblivious of the outside,
Protected from the harsh sun,
Too naive to think of pride.
Hands made only to care,
Share the love you receive,
Heart made of gold,
Helping the ones in need.
But is a little weaken,
Fear surrounding her sight
She closes her eyes
Thinking, everything is alright.
Doomed about the war outside.
She thinks, if she steps out,
The sun will tear off her skin,
Leaving her fragile and thin.
YOU ARE READING
Rhythm Of The Poem
PoetryHello everybody, I'm Darshita. Writing and reading has always been my passion. I love to write poems and whenever I finish writing one I always leave a piece of mine in it. It is a place where one can find the truest and the most realistic self of m...
