On a cloistered night

A lump in my throat,

Not heavy like Adam’s apple

or sharp like an uncut gemstone.

A fairy wren trapped in a deep

well, flapping its wings to keep 

itself in mid-air.

a fairy wren by Punk Biologist

Where did the egg hatch?

It’s hard to recall from 

a thousand places in memory.

Was it a bucket of fried chicken devoured

before fatigue from night shift stroke?

A cigarette lit

amidst toils from scaffolds to concrete?

A water bottle lost in a forest

where homework piles and chalk-dust flies?

from inprnt.com

There were nights when

this bird wants free from its cage

screeches and scratches 

yanked its host up from bed.

Yet tonight it was so quiet,

tame like a little lamb.

What is its pain compared to millions of bubbles

bursting at once in another’s lungs?

Tiny discomfort would be a boast.

from thechalkboard

The host, now lying flat,

breathes in all the tickling sensation

with a grateful grin and

joining all thoughts quaking the bars around her mind,

drifted down into an abyssal slumber.

from flickr.com

Wishing everyone good health and happiness,

Islina x

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