Hi there! Please enjoy this melancholic little poem that I wrote this evening.
When I was young,
My wings spread so broadly, a promise
Of all the things that yet would come,
All the deeds that would be done,
All the possibilities.
As age increased and it beget
More obstructions to my fate, my feathers
Dropped, one my one;
A thousand pathways that used then to exist were closed to me,
And my options withered like plums on Plath’s fateful tree,
And it seemed that, in reality,
I had had my wings clipped from the beginning,
In lies and promises falsified to child
Who looked at the world more in wonder
Than in sorrow.