Clipped, Gypped Not Whipped

A bird with clipped wings, she suffocates while placating the nest. She wants to snatch a fish tale and drop it into a pool of quicksand. That won’t bring her wings back but it will lessen an underdeveloped load. She dares not undo her last song. So her plight for flight continues until that merciful deliverance. Why’s it taking so long?

Another one's life span taunts her by. She supposes, she hopes, she fakes it 'til she makes it but she didn't sign up to be that thespian teetering on the brink of "yet" and "almost there," expected to get high on such a craft but she can't even raise her head to face a mirror let alone find the sky. She's been drafted. Maybe this draft note can be passed to someone else if they want it. Unfortunately, it's too late for anyone outside of the womb to dodge it.

She stands firm and vicariously convinced that today is the day she will know and experience that sweeter, greener side of the grass that only dreams have seemed to foster. Amongst so many others, her song will tell.