An Itch to Fly
The butterflies all flit around,
But woe is me, I’m tightly bound.
I can’t get free. I can’t get loose
To give my wings their proper use.
Yes, I have wings. I do, I know.
They itched so as I felt them grow.
They itched, and now they itch the more,
And long to open up and soar.
Why have these flight devices grown,
But only itched and never flown?
What purpose are my bound-up wings?
Not used to fly, they’re worthless things!
They itch, they ache, they throb, they burn,
They pant and pine to have their turn
For freedom in the boundless sky,
Where they can spread themselves and fly.
But trapped inside a chrysalis,
Such opportunities I miss.
My wings don’t fly; they barely twitch,
And oh, they itch, they itch, they itch.
~ Nita Brainard