She stares up at the starry sky while puffs of clouds meander by to silent, dark places not known. She watches alone, all alone, yearning to fly. All her life, she’s been a bird, caged, frazzled, red feathers, eyes of jade; both, no longer as sleek and bright— In fact, she is quite a sad sight…has come unmade. She’s been called a bitch—perhaps, witch? —that wasn’t a spell, just a twitch, muttered with a foul word or two at the one who causes hoodoo, makes her bones itch. One night she will straddle a broom, run away from this life entombed. To the far heavens, she will climb— Yes, stay up long past her bedtime…fly with the moon. ©2023 jai florette
Image by Ruslan Sikunov from Pixabay
On the Fringe of Darkness 