the world folding in on itself,
its home—
small, fragile, enclosing.
In truth, he was more free.
He could fly higher
than most around him,
yet never tried
to reach the greater sky.
The bird has no right to complain;
for it was he,
the little one,
who never tried.
And so, the only one to blame
was always him.
His chirping may sound
comforting, soul-soothing,
but it is his only way
of crying, of confessing.
For he could do no more than that—
all because, in truth,
he never did.
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