she stares out at me, dark with chained emotions,

dusty with misuse-abuse until each blade

becomes the twirling arm of some great broken beast-

torn from life too soon;

torn from broken dreams;

                       torn from great hopes;

never to feel the electric excitement again.

It wasn’t always like this.

she moved with the wind once,

downing the hot, sultry air

            as if the best of drugs

seizing the hot, damning air

            and keeping it for herself—she could Fly

but no more

               no more flying

            no more dreams

         no more thrill of the summer breeze slashing through the sunset

      no more tears, or laughter-smiles-love,

   no more frolicking with the dust mites in the spring

no more warmth; the dead clawing of winter has taken the life out of the air

no more

It wasn’t always like this.

© Tofer Carlson 2011