The Soaring Bird: Poetry

This churning
underneath her sternum
leaves her stricken

It is as if
the axis of her being
is just a ball of pain

She hugs herself and
tears spill over;
the dam has broken

How can she live
when a part of her dies
every single day?

How can she love
them when they hurt her
no matter what she does?

Falling, falling, falling:
Gravity has won;
Soaring birds must come down


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