Poem: Broken Wing Bud

Broken Wing Bud

for my left shoulder

Whether or not I ever had wings to start with

doesn’t matter.

It’s really about

the aching –

just behind my heart.

I first noticed it

in the crushing light of noon

when I tried to reach for the sun

but couldn’t feel its warmth.

Blocked by clouds I misconstrued as solid,

blinded by my ardent hope and expectations –

I shriveled.

Others would have kept trying

to fly toward the light

but I had no parachute to break my fall

and gave in to fear.

So cold, defeated, dead, denying,

broken.

What exactly I was trying to achieve

doesn’t matter.

It’s really about

the folly of expecting someone else to lift me higher,

and casting blame,

for the gnawing, yearning pain –

that won’t leave me alone.

Alone.

Where no one can tell me

I’ll never fly through the stars,

or conversely

that I must try for the sky

when all I need is within me.