---
Mrs. Rhino, please don't intoxicate
my Mama Nightingale's brain.
She's too innocent for your old lies,
too soft for the unworthy pain.
She doesn't want to fly yet,
but trust me please, I can.
Through the wild, let's not lie,
we found the same place you live in.
But you don't own this place.
I'm sorry, but bamboozling
don't make good votes.
Everybody in this room lazily rushes
towards the door.
It's difficult to break through the ceiling,
but this I go for.
I refuse to replace my beautiful wings
with the lax leathers
for wings already taught me through
love, patience, and emotion
how to glide.
I don't think I can count distance
on ground.
I think counting the altitude
of my finish line is how
I'll learn.
I keep hoping it's not an illusion,
the way the clouds attract my heart,
for I'm loving the way I was born
and the way my eyes see it.
I refuse to replace my beautiful wings
with the faux feathers
for wings already taught me through
love, patience, and emotion
how to fly.
Mrs. Rhino, please don't intoxicate
my Mama Nightingale's brain.
She gave birth to me to fly, to sing,
and I mustn't have your pain.
Mrs. Rhino, this is what
Uncle Ostrich told me after knowing
her daughter can fly with me:
You, lucky creatures, really should
fly when your wings truly could.
---
YOU ARE READING
Finite Infinitives
Poetry𝙁𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙄𝙣𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨 ╰ a c o m p i l a t i o n o f p o e m s ╰ c o m p l e t e d "I haven't done everything I want, but in the realm of reams, I already did some."
