Sharper

My eyes are furnace-red.
Was I born to stand down or am I being tugged and dragged?
One hand rives the other as I write a common poem,
But at least the birds are freed and fed.

I am part of the bunch that never stopped migrating.
If the wind is warm and wraps us hard,
We fight through songs of grief
So that our flight goes far.

We become sharper
And the pain that would before wound us
Now falls in the form of rain.
I checked the language of the mountain
To see if I still was pronouncing it the right way.
It was the same, I was the same,
But sharper and further away.

Deixe uma Resposta

Preencha os seus detalhes abaixo ou clique num ícone para iniciar sessão:

Logótipo da WordPress.com

Está a comentar usando a sua conta WordPress.com Terminar Sessão /  Alterar )

Google photo

Está a comentar usando a sua conta Google Terminar Sessão /  Alterar )

Imagem do Twitter

Está a comentar usando a sua conta Twitter Terminar Sessão /  Alterar )

Facebook photo

Está a comentar usando a sua conta Facebook Terminar Sessão /  Alterar )

Connecting to %s