We find ourselves trapped
Within confines of little worlds
“You take the bedroom desk”, I say
“I’ll set myself up in the living room“.
We have become territorial
Each careful not to spill over into
The quiet room of the other.
The only sound comes from ribcages
Faint flutterings of unfrequented hearts
Flapping their rusty wings
Nudging to find gaps in doors
Waiting, waiting, to take flight.
After a day glued to the desk and trying to ignore the constant fluttering, what else would I write about?!
This poem has re-ignited my desire for a bird tattoo. I’ve had the design and location marked out for the longest time now. Some things just take time. But there is always hope. Here, listen to this one.
Out of the sirens might come the birdsong
Out of the silence might come the lovesong….