In a long ago my thoughts had wings
Silvery, gossamer, shimmery things
Tied to my heartstrings as they were
Disabled, grounded I became aware,
Inexplicably, I was captive to the earth.
No happiness left to help me fly
Bereft of the blueness of the sky
Wings began to atrophy, to die
Naught else matters, package the magic
Protect the essence, distil it for healing.
My wings they withered, fell to the dirt
Lustrous dust particles to mix with hard tears,
Spinal protrusions absorbed leaden pain
Seeping soul-deep therein to singe and to burn
Stockpiling within all iniquitous misery.
Wing-dust and heart-tears they did combine
A concoction of magic to help others fly
Smeared on old Luna, diffused in sun-rays
Falling from heaven a suffusion of shimmer
Upturned sad face saturated with glimmer.
The brightness did spread, permeating souls
Wings they did sprout beneath winter clothes
Germinating nubs grew as leaves, folded, laid flat
Along every backbone, bright tumescence profound
Mysterious magic, deliverance bestowing - soft wings.
In the dawn of a new day, skies blush-pink in delight
A great rustling was present, vast hosts did take flight
Abandoning earth, forsaking possessions …. fleeing
From turmoil, war and oppression, wings beating softly
In timpani tandem, lofted skywards to freedom and safety.
A small price to pay….
The surrender of One pair of Magical Wings.
Bio
Janet Stoyel is a Practicing Wordsmith. After a notable career in Textiles, Technology, Art and Design, Janet now focuses her attention upon Creative Writing wherein Dyslexia poses expected provocation! Janet writes for the pure appreciation, joy and challenge she encounters in daily language: in letters, words, sentences, she chooses, organises, weaves, knits and constructs, her written explorations into her own distinctive freeform vocabulary.
Janet Stoyel MBE, lives in a small Somerset Village in the UK …. a sleepy, rural area of Wetlands noted for the growing of Willow and the making of baskets – it is a great place to write!
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