Bird in Flight

Fingers melt into sable wings.
I, a fluttering form
unable to escape these walls.
Nature dictates
its well-worn path--
This is north,
That is south.

I must go my own way.
But I cannot help
but be defined by you,
pulled by an instinct
born before me.

Ah, nature.
Or cruel fate?

I think we both yearn to break
away from this bond
and discover
our own shapes,
removed from these hands--
this glaring light,
that only illuminates our
incapacity to see beyond ourselves.

So why do we hold on
to this painful mimicry,
of me trying to be what you are,
a life void of color,
unable to let you go.