A delicate, translucent thing.
It's easier this way.
The reality causes sickness;
a hurt that makes me sob.
She's trapped.
Between the fingers of her lovers.
Against the window;
one, two, three, on and on.
A desperate fluttering against the pane.
Damage done to soft, soft wings.
It hurts but it alleviates.
In that tiny body is a burden;
fear, worry, fear.
And this is my terror:
I cannot cup my hands around her.
Stop her. Carry her to safety.
Small, fragile and broken.
A delicate, translucent thing.
It's easier this way.
About Me
- Blue Bird
- Isn't this what the blogging's for..? I write. I draw. I listen to music... alot. I have an obsession with the colour blue and any type of glass. If Orion or Cassiopeia or The Plough or the Seven Sisters were visible in the night sky I could point them out to you, and probably would, but I couldn't tell you if Jupiter was that bright star on the horizon or if Venus can only be seen in the morning, however much I'd like to be able to. My obsessions spread over to photos too - those small physical snapshots of memories to shake and reawaken feelings in your mind. I try recreate that with my writing, but don't often succeed - it's a harder task than it sounds. I find this is partly because I don't write enough... hence the reason I'm here, speaking my thoughts to a distinct lack of reader. It's all good.
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