Nightingales sitting high up in the sky,
Higher than her eyes could reach.
Poor little thing, she didn’t get out much,
That even the gentle breeze amuses her.
Rules, rules. She was tired of it,
For she never knew to make her own.
Everytime a tear rolls down her cheek,
She would look up at the sky to see
Nothing but an old huge ceiling.
Little did they know, that she’ll break out,
For they sent all the men to find her.
She ran to keep up with the wind,
Surprised she was to see the strength built-in.
The peeking sun had stopped her like a barricade.
Oh my, the honey-coloured eyes she had that shone,
Like a diamond reflecting golden light.
She was awestruck by the phenomenon,
A minute of heaven, and the rains of hell starts.
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Author:
Reese Bailey (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 17th, 2023 11:03
- Comment from author about the poem: It talks about the restrictions that hold someone caged inside their own comfort space, which soon starts feeling like being ripped from your freedom.
- Category: Sad
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: jarcher54, Soman Ragavan.
Offline)
Comments3
This left me breathless. Intense and painfully lovely. Seeing the sky as a ceiling is a perfect metaphor. May everyone feeing this way find an escape.
Thank you very much. I deeply am fond of your liking for my poem.
Please see the poem “The Indian soldiers” by “Nature” and my comments.
Soman Ragavan. 3 September, 2023 //
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How do you make that picture ?... Flowing clouds, flowing hair, flowing saree, rippling water... To increase the mystery, the face is turned away... For the bird : staying on the spot is like being a prisoner; breaking out, too, brings its hell... See my poem "Thank you, Google..." tomorrow on this site...Soman Ragavan. 3 October, 2023.
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