Question

The Illusion of Flight

I danced on winds with feathered grace,
A speck of joy in open space—
The sky, my home, the clouds, my kin,
No cage could hold the soul within.

I sang of dawn from mountain highs,
My song would wake the sleeping skies.
Each beat of wing, a heartbeat true,
The world was vast, the air was blue.

But then—
A flicker in the painted trees,
No rustling leaves, no moving breeze.
The sky too still, the sun too bright,
A lightbulb moon that mocked the night.

I flew—but hit a glassy dome,
My freedom caged in plastic home.
The grass was felt, the brook was glue,
And I—a toy with joints askew.

A painted smile, a hollow chest,
Propped up in pose, forever dressed.
The wind? A fan behind the wall.
My songs? Just echoes down the hall.

They'd wound me up to think I'm free,
To play a part in make-believe.
But now I sit—still posed to soar,
A doll who dreams of skies no more.

Yet still... a whisper stirs inside,
A memory of winds I’d ride.
Though hands control the life I see,
Somewhere within—still burns "be free."

Answer 1

This poem was in my online journal.

Answer 2

Love the passion. Clearly gifted!!! Keep up being creative like this, its great!!