Trails so torn by yesterday’s proximity.
The horizon darkens, embers choke.
A feeling reminiscent of hunger consumes,
diminishing focus on the tunnels and paths created by eloping tree limbs.
What hurts most to a wing-clipped bird isn’t the physical,
but rather the memory of what was-- to escape,
to rise and greet the sunlight; and cackle at tree tops.
Clipped now the trees seem mockingly taller,
the shadows saturated in evil pride.
Does it mean anything to stand at all,
but only to remain inches tall?
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This poem was written when I had recently been broken up with by the person I was engaged to. Needless to say, I was contemplating many elements of love and what it means to love at this point. Thus, I began contemplating the majestic ability a bird has to fly and how painful it must be to suddenly be reduced to only a few inches off the ground.