Flight III

Once again I am defined
by boxes, cases, bags and mess
distributed in all my rooms -
my cocoon explodes -
strews my entrails on the floor -
what I am for?
The breath in me
asks for its place, its level, its own reverie
but while my hands must 
struggle with these tasks
I am lack and I am less
unfulfilling all their promise
of love and sunny skies ...
each breath I breathe slowly makes the heart die
and all the thought process
petrifies -
held in amber
fixed in slumber
till the sun's rays wake its life
and let it live enough 
to see its lines all reach and join
yet uncontain the life within
give freedom 
to its flight, blessing
to its wings
enough to make the heart's flight sing.

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