Of dusty cabinets and faulty shoelaces,
Of sleepless nights and dreamless mornings.
Of creaking hinges and cracked mirrors,
He wakes up every morning.
Like a phoenix emerging from its ashes.
Only to be shot down again.
Unable to unfurl its wings.
The eyes stare, the mouths talk.
The glances linger,
On the strange boy with the strange things.
Being told he can’t fly with the wings he has.
But to learn to run fast.
To move swiftly under the beings above.
That soar with wings no one seemed to cut.
Or rather could not.
But he isn’t meant to run, no.
Not when he can fly.
So they hold him down,
And pluck out the feathers.
One by one.
Tearing, yanking, agonizingly.
But the cage cannot contain those
Destined to flutter.
And so bleeding wings flap.
But are enough to take flight.
As he soars on and on and out of sight.
Abreast with the birds, wings finally dry.
And those standing below say:
“There he goes, we taught him to fly.”