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What Doesn't Fly

I was something that flew in another life

By Jori T. SheppardPublished about a year ago 2 min read
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I was a thing that flew in a past life

Memory is poor in a mind but a soul captures secrets forever

The wings of a bird hide in my arms and gasp alive in the whisper of a breeze

The wind is a lost lover and it caresses under feathers long gone

It pleads, it begs, it demands in a language of hissing tounges and invisible lines

The pierce of a harpoon in a chest far to heavy, it balloons, drags, draws

Weak to the pull I spread my arms wide and my soul rises in untamed hope

The wind pulls, it slides, it lifts on arms weaker than mine and is ready to embrace me as it has done before

Wings know the motion it’s a guide burned wild nature learned a thousand times before

Birds foolish enough to be not birds again know the beat

To match how the wind dances it’s circular and powerful.

A rise on an arrow and the fall of rain on fire it’s a cycle of whims

The repeat, it’s power, its working its lightness and a hug from the invisible

It’s hard, exhausting it’s energy is strength my muscles don’t have

It’s how it’s supposed to be and my soul knows and remembers.

The ground will fight, I will dance low on breezes until I am powerful enough to be away.

The ice under my skin

the fire in my limbs

and the lightness in my chest

it’s there.

It’s all there

It’s not

I am too heavy

My feathers long gone

My limbs not strong

I remain where I am the same as before with the other humans saying I am wrong

I can’t fly, but they can’t see my soul on the breeze,

its in a memory too good for me to see

I can feel it’s elation, it’s joy set free in the wind that guides its wings up

I remain and I am not sad, when my soul dives back back to me it tells my body a story

The lightness, the exertion, how the sky’s embrace is soft, It’s pleasure, it’s heaven

It’s something my bones listen about and it lives in wait in my every vein and cell

This body will never know what true flight is and neither will my mind

I will decay until I can fake fly no longer and it will die sitting on a wish

My soul will be free of its cage at last and go to where souls go

If there is a God, a robed skeleton or a happy man, my soul will stand determined before it

It will wait a year , a decade, a century for the chance

if the world has rotted away along with this body

and if wings are forgotten for a million years by the life so insistant to remain

If it has to wait I am sure it will

“Where will you go” the end will ask my soul patient with answer

“I want to be something that flies” it will say

nature poetry
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About the Creator

Jori T. Sheppard

I make my own cover art to my stories. I don't follow the traditional approach, I need to challenge myself by putting a twist on the prompts I am given. The only rule I follow is "Don't be bad", and that gives me a A LOT of wiggle room

Reader insights

Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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Comments (4)

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  • Novel Allenabout a year ago

    I sure hope its not a robed skeleton. I love the flow of the words. So nostalgic.

  • Wilbert Dela Cruzabout a year ago

    I love it-- we too are just like birds with wings, not all of us can see it; to be bale to use it. I call that wing, free-will, and sad thing is, most people knows they have one but only lost the will to fly

  • Lori Lamotheabout a year ago

    Great imagery. I also love the form here because it fits so well with your subject.

  • Mary Haynesabout a year ago

    I loved your imagery. I just got back from the beach where I took many photos of birds. I envy them their ability to glide above the noise.

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