Restless

is my soul

in this skin,

morphing,

from the cocoon

but not yet used to these

wings,

 

free

from the dark, cramped

past-life chrysalis

but not free enough

from the weighted wet

preventing my wings

from fully drying,

 

so I can fly,

soar to my fullest

potential,

reach the height

I’ve been aching for

since I was born.

 

Restless is my soul

still

in its search for the home

waiting for me.

Not in a rush,

but tired

of the delays

with wings

still not ready

to take me

where I so long

to be.

 

Perhaps

my home

will come

to me…

 

Poem and image ©LauraDenise