I gaze outside at the doves
Flying high above the fields, and wonder
Why is it that my wings are clipped?
The sound of their whistling wings
Tugs teasingly at my heart strings;
A heart caged behind window bars.
Their song carries on the gentle breeze,
Cheerful music my ears turn to sad tones.
Why is it my beak is muted?
Silhouettes cast against the morning sun
Blur with tears as I pull at my shackles.
Why am I not free to fly high?
Perhaps, because I am bound
By society's chains.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection of Poetry Vol. I
PoetryA collection of previous poetry written by me, left the way it was when I discovered it. There are no specific genres or forms to these.
