feathers form to dust,
its white now to a gray,
i wish I'd grown my trust,
before it broke in days.
peace flies past my windows,
what i wish i could've become,
instead; i melted in my pillows,
and missed the migration of the doves.
soaring fragments to recovery,
yet i clipped my wings,
died in winter too suddenly,
i forgot how my ears would ring.
don't confuse my plucked torture,
with choices led to this,
i couldn't choose; nor move further,
as I dropped towards the abyss.
don't confuse my voice with pity,
as it folds under tormented sedation,
my feet seem to be slipping.
what happened to the migration?
-jvi.
