Clipped

Wind blows through caught hair,
Gusts push up the wings,
Filled with gold silt and dust,
Folding precariously,
Feathers reaching outward.
She climbs higher
Staying far from the sun,
Remembering the old myth.
Landing on a cotton cloud,
She smiles as she views
The dotted landscape.

A small puff of dark smoke
Rises up from beneath her
With a sputter and a whirl.
In a black flying machine,
Someone comes to ruin fun.
The person holds her down,
Clipping her free wings,
Pulling chains on top her,
Dragging her back down
To the flightless ground.

Dressed plainly, humbly,
She is captured, all alone,
Being put on display all day,
According to how they want.
They called her uncivilized,
Told her not to fly or dream,
Do what they want only
And she would be rewarded.

Building up heat inside,
She sits quietly thinking
Only of her planned escape.
She stifles the flame
More than once or twice,
To keep trying to do good.
Yet the fire wouldn’t squelch.

She bursts out in fury,
Not for them to see,
But a silent rebellion,
New strong wings burst out,
She’s let off for good behavior,
Still expected to wall down,
Despite her brand new wings.

Yet, she flies away quickly,
Glad to have freedom back.
But the dream isn’t long,
It is, very shortly lived,
For they come back to her,
With their flying machines,
To try to civilize her again.

Though this is continuous,
A sad, never-ending cycle,
She bears through it all,
For those precious moments
Of total flight of freedom.