Soar

The world is a whisper. My heart aches for more; more understanding, more fear, more lust, more desire. There’s much to discover, but I am but a bird caught as this old lady’s prisoner. This cage is too small, too hot, and reeks of my own shit. Hung in a dark corner, forgotten, and abandon my cage awaits for the rust to cut it like a knife.

My wings, shiny, bright, and yellow; fluffed and ready. But this lady is isolated. She’s grown used to my beautiful breast and my glorious morning hymns. I am only a burden. A chore. Her own misery cannot escape my existence. She cannot see that I, too, need companionship and adventure-to open my wings and feel the release of flight.

She is buried under mounds of old newspaper, dirty coffee mugs, and musk. The cats are screaming, licking dirty plates and taunting me with their eyes. Waiting I am for the moment their bellies are eating their insides. Waiting for their curious minds to pick my latch. They do not sense my readiness, my desire, or my need. They can only feel the crumbs from their last meal. Patiently I am perched planning my escape to fly out the kitchen window, spread my wings and soar.

By: me