Hospitals of the Mind

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Fallen

I've nested at VGH's psychiatric ward –
lest I smother my last breath.
All 'round crumpled feathers grow bored,
peck at meals, consider death.

The imbalanced, wings wounded and clipped,
need refuge from the vortex of storms.
Their family and friends grasp an oily grip,
as we fail to fall into the norm.

It's not your fault your poet friend failed to fly –
great minds 'oft lost to confusion.
Our mutual writer friend needs to soar above the sky;
we'll love him during his seclusion.

L. BeBe more than 2 years ago

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