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
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