To cage one's own heart willingly...

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I hear a kind of sorrow in that idea, someone so attuned to others that they disappear from their own care. Here’s a poem around that feeling: There lives a soul who reads the ache In trembling smiles that others fake, Who hears the grief in laughter’s sound, And kneels where silent wounds are found. A keeper of unspoken fears, A witness soft to hidden tears, They gather storms from weary skies And hold them gently, asking, “Why?” How strange, how pitiful the art, To know each fracture of a heart, Yet turn no lantern to one’s own, And make of sorrow flesh and bone. For they will calm another’s sea, Whilst drowning where none care to see; Will stitch the wounds on stranger’s skin, Yet leave their own to ache within. They understand too much, perhaps, The grief between affection’s gaps, The trembling guilt, the sharpened shame, The quiet hurt with no true name. And so they bend, and so they stay, To light the dark in others’ way; Till kindness, noble though it seems, Consumes the keeper ...
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I wonder how the bird whose wings were cut off...

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I wonder how the bird whose wings were cut off looks at the sky? With rage? With regret? With grief? Despair? Love? Peace?

Maybe it looks at the sky with grief, remembering what it once had.

Maybe with rage, because something precious was taken.

Maybe with regret, because the sky still calls but can’t be reached.

Maybe with despair, realizing the distance between longing and reality.

Or maybe strangely, beautifully with love, because the sky was once home.

And perhaps even with peace, because after fighting and hurting and yearning, sometimes a living thing learns to rest in what is left.

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