Clipped Wings

I’m not one to venture far.

I like my life the same.

But I feel my wings are clipped.

Sometimes, I long to be a bird

that migrates through the skies.

Who loves them with no promises,

who leaves them with a kiss,

who’s off before the sunrise 

with no burdens of goodbyes.

His bag is packed.

He takes the wind

to where it wants to go.

Imagination can’t improve

the life he’s living now.

published in The Interstitial