The Fire I Flew Into

I once dreamed of skies unbound,
Wings aching from the cage of comfort,
Safe in the hands of love,
Yet restless at the edge of my perch.

The world burned beneath—
Not my home, not my fight,
But the scent of suffering rises,
And still, I remain still?

The Bodhisattva said nothing,
Just watched as I broke my own bars
With the beak of compassion.
I flew into the flame.

It scorched, yes.
But the moment I cried for others,
My wings remembered what they were made for.

Freedom isn’t flight.
Freedom is the courage to descend
When the world needs rain, not song.

© Susie Stiles-Wolf