Wings

As born again blossoms bloom, who am I to wilt upon the dawn of spring, as I can see morning robins gather to bless me with the melodies they sing. Their once melancholic lullaby, disappears with every drop of rain, in cloudless, bright blues skies, they have sang away winter's pain. I watch them collect fallen twigs, nimbly, creating their new nests, rebuilding something that was once broken, fighting valiantly against nature's tests. They're aware that predators lurk, so when sunset sinks at silent twilight, I wonder where do they seek shelter, so they don't become prey of the night. With philosopher eyes the mind ponders what if birds were born without both wings. How would they fly to freedom when trapped? Would we still hear the melodies a robin sings? When bewildered in the wilderness, some slither softly, lost in melancholic motions, submerging slowly in shallow streams, unable to control their erratic emotions. We are blessed with spiritual wings, but some prefer to remain within their cocoon. Unable to learn from the homecoming of birds, their authentic-self, struggles to hum in tune. In the migration of misunderstood minds, we can become lost among unknown silhouettes, like dead petals ignored by butterflies, our inflictions turn us into marionettes. Darkness will always consume our horizons, so as I arrive upon illuminations ledge, I revel in the belief my spirit will fly if my foundations crumble at the edge.