DOVE
Why is it always me beating him?
Drawing the knife that slits his wrists?
Why is it that it is he
Who is the victim of my obvious torture?
Or maybe, just maybe
The reality has been
This screaming, lost soul
Who is forever locked inside
Like the wild bird imprisoned in this cage
Forest of metal
But this bird cannot be held down
Not by iron bars nor rugged hands
Not by violent winds nor broken heart
No matter how many times
He may cut these wings
I will fly.
2000,Katrina Rose
Back
Or
Next Poem
