Literature
Broken Wings (Poem)
I dreamed of skies, a canvas vast,
Where clouds were not my chains,
But whispers soft, to carry me
Beyond the reach of pain.
My wings were forged in tender hope,
With threads of light and fire,
Each feather born from distant stars,
Each beat an upward choir.
But in this world, the winds are cruel,
And dreams are sharp, like glass,
I soared too high, I touched the flames,
And found them cold, alas.
The skies that beckoned turned to stone,
And every gust a tear,
My wings, once bold, began to crack,
Each fall a whispered fear.
Yet still I rise, though bruised and torn,
With bones that ache, and bleed,
For in the brokenness, I know,
The fire still fuels the need.
A dream is not a thing to grasp,
But something to become,
And though my wings may falter now,
The sky still calls me home.
So let the winds cut deep and wide,
Let shadows cross my way,
For even shattered, I will climb
And rise again, each day.
(The poem (all or its parts) is copyrighted by Bukoslav, 2025)
