Poetry · Writing

Kingfisher

It boils in the pit of insecurity

measured on the tip of my tongue.

It won’t, It won’t

fly like the bird I envisioned.

The bird in my dreams that

flies to new heights, through

the atmosphere and seeing the stars.

It hides in its cage. Chained too

my lunges and sings to

itself about the dream it once

had.

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