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.