I once read a poem about a caged bird and I sobbed.
The thought of it being created as a free thing, and getting trapped into confinement broke my heart at an early age.
My mom told me one spring if I played in the rain barefoot I'd get sick... but I was created to be free like the bird, so I dared the previous warnings and didn't regret it once a cough settled into my chest.
I have ignored almost every word of caution since...
From bed to bed, couch to couch, house to house, city to city, I go.
If not for adventure, what? My soul asked confused.
Chaotic routine hit me like a baseball bat cracking as it hits the season opener.
This free bird saw a cage like shadow and swore she could manage... but it loomed.
Needing rest. Forgetting to exhale. My eyes remain in a flash flood zone.
No identifiable timeline, no recognizable season. I feel the need to move sluggishly and quick, all at the same time. No way of telling right from left.
The bird sought out a landing spot... just for a minute... just so she can gather her thoughts.
That's when he saw her... and put her in the cage.
I wonder now, how long that little bird survived after entering the cage.
It's awfully dark in here.
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