Can you miss something
you have never had?
Do the pigeons desire
the thumbs, the hands, we swear by,
that have gotten us so far?
Do they feel its absence as strongly
as they feel the sun on their back?
Do the fish miss the lungs that allow
the animals to roam Earth’s bountiful jewels
ever more beautiful, whilst they perish
in the filth of their vices?
Do the good long to be bad,
in the same way that black longs to be white
and we long to be who we are not?
I do.
I miss the wings of freedom
so liberating, on my back,
completely literal and yet fully metaphorical ––
the air in my face, without a care save for myself
breathtaking in the sense I cannot breathe
my lungs so full of that sweet taste.
I soared above the skies once
so small, a speck, nobody knew how I flew;
now they all recognize the pattern
of my outstretched arms,
and know my flights better than myself.
How awful to be so predictable!
How terrible! How I swore, once,
upon a summer star, that I would never
Be that girl!
Oh, that I would be Freedom herself!
And look at life now, so tired it has made me ––
Like a bird without her wings!
The only difference is that
my wings can never be fixed,
you can set broken bones, but not damaged souls.
And like Freedom herself who is so capricious
she changes with each Tide!
Each new day is another story for her to follow,
and how sad to think – to know
That all I ever meant to anybody
was a story.
Another story to read
over coffee in the mornings
and sugary buns and wives who don’t love you anymore but pretend they do
and drop out children and worn socks with holes in them
and the smell of disappointment
that was all I ever was.
Freedom – oh! to be like she
so coveted and wanted,
it was my only desire, although it masked itself
in tears and blood and promises.
I miss the wings of freedom,
although I never had them.
I miss the worn socks with holes
and the late nights burning the midnight oil,
alone in the darkness with only sweet Freedom for company.
The taste of her on my cherry red lips,
I long for her sweet elixir to burn through me again.
Pen in hand I write my pleas to a god who no longer listens
if he ever did.
And that daring goddess Freedom laughs at my plight,
like the birds laugh at the fish who cannot fly.
Like I laugh at sweet remorse of a story I once forgot,
and know not to forget anymore.
I am that story,
and Freedom my maker.