art
Poetry and art go hand in hand; in fact, a poem is just art in the written form.
The Bird That Couldn't Fly
Upon a beam of old, dry oak, A silent bird no longer spoke. 🐦 Her wings once kissed the morning sun, Now folded back — no longer run. ☀️ A rope was wound around her chest, Not made by hands — by thoughts suppressed. 🪢 Not hunters’ snare, nor net of thread, But fears and doubts her mind had bred. 💭 She used to glide through dawn's first gleam, Chasing light and chasing dream. ✨ She'd race the clouds, she'd laugh with rain, But now she sings a song of pain. 🌧️ “Oh skies,” she chirps, “do you recall, The days I dared, the times I’d fall? But I would rise, oh how I’d fly, With stars beneath and moon up high.” 🌙🌌 Her claws still gripped the weathered wood, Her heart still beat — it understood. ❤️ Though rope may bind and days grow dim, The will to soar still burned within. 🔥 Each feather held a tale untold, Each tear a drop of courage bold. 😢🪶 The cage she wore, she made herself, And hung it gently on a shelf. 🪟 A single breeze, so soft, so kind, Whispered truth into her mind: “You’re not too small, you’re not too late— The skies still hold your open gate.” 🕊️✨ With trembling breath, she closed her eyes, And dreamt of blue and endless skies. 💙 The rope, though tight, began to fray— A sign her fears would fade away. 🧵 And when the sun began to rise, She stretched her wings with no disguise. 🌄 One leap of faith, one final cry— The bird at last began to fly. 🕊️💫 ---
By The Pen of Farooq about a year ago in Poets
