THIS IS HOW I MADE MY WINGS
With sunken eyes in tired sockets,
a girl ran after her father’s sigh;
seized it, slit its throat, hid the
blood-stained knife in a lawn of solitude
& became the dream her father had
on the night of her conception.
She remembers her mother’s words,
“On the night of your birth,
your father was like this tipsy darkness-
wearing a shirt sewn from a fabric of scars,
he staggered in the furrows of dimming stars
till he stood before a mirror & saw you
walk out of his reflection.
So when you run, my daughter, from the
ghosts of dead flowers & the songs that
die in the throat of a town-crier’s gong,
hold the hands of your Shadow
‘cos on the day when your sun slumps and dies
& the moon turns his back at you,
Your shadow will perch on your soul
& hum into your ears, tunes trapped in
the sealed lips of the wind.
Do you still ask how I made my wings?
I learn to turn down the volume of my lover’s song,
The buzzing craze of the busy world
just to listen to the voice of Silence,
and watch solitude spin me wings
from the plume of ideas.
This poem was written in 2017 from a deep personal reflection about how silence quickly becomes the massage oil ideas use to settle in, into the skin of our minds. I feel it’s a good time to share it with the you, with the world.
Photo Credit: pexel.com
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