Open Poem by Eila Mahima Jaipaul

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Rating: 5.0


I lay here in a room with no door
and a hundred windows,
alive, feeling everything
but blankly, just as the ceiling
at which I stare.

When I was seven
I believed I could talk to birds.

By ten, I deciphered the illusion,
trading magic for fact,
and realized they were actually speaking to me.

Lying sideways
across the made bed
and crumpled pillows
I wait for them.

This is the sound.
The sound of waiting.
The sound of flying.

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