Spirit by Elizabeth Prickett

When I was just a child,

I would sing long and loud,

craving to be wild,

striving to be free.

My tiny voice would cry up to the azure Sky

seeking faces in the clouds

and asking them to drop by.

To play with the spirit

who yearned to fly on limp wings

and had yet to feel the hard grit.

Willing to give life a chance,

in a world full of deceit.

Determined to dry those wings

not accepting defeat.


But, wings ripped from it’s back

and grounded in the mud,

the spirit turns black

and slips into silence.

Silence, it learned,

kept the blows from coming.

Silence, it heard,

kept their feet from running.

The fiery child, turned to acrid smoke,

The words lie flat on its tongue,

causing it to choke.

all it ever did was feel

the tears freeze upon the sullen face,

and the crystals blur the vision,

of the one who looked up to space.


No longer does it dream of grandeur,

the siren song of splendor.

A coal in a puddle of melted ice,

unable to ignite for fear of fire.

Afraid of the warmth that will return to its fingertips,

afraid of the weight lifted from its lips

of the unbridled whimsy,

of the flight into uncertainty.

So, the spirit stays cold,

it’s story untold

waiting for the soul to unfold

it’s frozen limbs and feel the rays of the sun

peering down between the clouds,

willing it to come join them in the sky.pexels-photo-289998.jpeg

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