Feathers Through Broken Glass

I write myself through rooms

of musty memories, dust fog,

and lonely breathing through

a hand’s reach of five lungs.

Elbow to elbow we fed

on silence until leaving

was the only thing

we could digest.

The house was too small for the pain,

too angry for laughter, too weighted

with unspoken.

I don’t know how we grew wings,

but each one of us pulled feathers

through broken glass until the sky freed us.

Joy whispered where sorrow wept.

We were a house of twisted oak,

but love was never a sparrow’s nest

built from hollow words.

©Susie Clevenger 2017

Real Toads ~ Fashion Me Your Words ~ Let's Build Houses