The Painted Bird

The painted bird, caged in gilded bars,

Sings a mournful song, etched with distant stars.

Its vibrant plumage, once soaring free,

Now dimmed by shadows, longing for what used to be.

Each chirp, a silent plea, unheard and unseen,

A yearning for wind beneath its wings, a sky pristine.

The bars reflect a distorted reality,

A gilded prison, mocking its lost liberty.

Sunlight paints squares on the cold, hard floor,

A cruel reminder of a world forevermore

Beyond reach, a distant memory's fleeting dream,

Of open fields and soaring, where sunlight would gleam.

Will the cage ever open, will the song take flight?

Or will the painted bird forever mourn beneath the night?

Its silent lament, a whisper on the breeze,

A reminder that beauty caged, eventually loses its ease.

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