a symbol

There are these words.  These words that come out from my head to rest on the air I breathe.  But I don’t know what they mean.  Mostly, they just stay in my head.  These words are afraid of freedom.  They roost inside, laying their eggs of stagnation.  The tired bags that lie beneath my eyes tell tale of the spoiled ova, forgetting the freshness of crisp air to float away on.  Long flaxen locks hide the redness of my hardened lips that remain closed.  What now to see my sunshine through this windowpane.  A mere glass broken pain whose wings are ready for flight.  Rest my cup beside me, fill it with the ocean.  This pungeunt air inside my head will gather its salted dew.

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