Trapped

This life is of broken glass,

The past is my present,

Never gaining freedom from reflection.

The repression on my soul leaves me trapped,

Like a bird with a broken wing.

My cage is weighty plumage which I cannot rid myself of;

It is a part of me.

I sought to soar;

Instead the shackles of steady ground swallowed me while,

Leaving me to here,

That sound of the slamming door closed by my own demise.

Shards of shattered glass split my aged wounds open and,

Drain the sweet sound from my harmonious chirp,

Turning it to but a helpless breath.