In the quiet of the night, perhaps you are a bird
robbed of wings, yet not of song
feathers replaced by whispered words,
plumage lost, but your eloquence strong.
So you dance, on barren ground,
each step a verse, each leap a line.
You’ve discovered the sky in syllables found,
soaring in stanzas when you can't in time.
They say you're earthbound, a creature confined,
but listen, they know not the hymns you keep.
Your rhythm is air, your cadence is wind,
and in each metaphor, you find your sweep.
Perhaps your wings are thoughts that dare
Maybe you're a bird, still claiming the air.