I Am But a Wounded Bird

I sit at my desk….thinking about the significance

of the chocolates that he gave to me today

His…a surprise above any thinking of mine own

I am doing all that I can to not cry for myself

For I am so frightened by any signs of a promised love

I am but a wounded bird

Who flies above the world with eyes patched to darkness

Praying and hoping that this…will some how pass me by

Because I can not endure the passions of my own heart

I am a masterpiece for the macabre to a spirit

That withers in the wind

As I think of the touch of his lips as soft as the pillow of which I lay my head

Why am I so frightened of love?

And what shall I do about it?

Time is passing me by and I am so tired of running

For there have been so many suitors… of no interest to me

Fear has lead me here…as I search for answers from my God above

Has he sent me love?

Or a false imitation of a fear to be known?

I…the wounded bird…cursed by what I can not see

I… the wounded bird who sits at her desk

In fancy of you….my love…who moves about my mind and soul

As the white doves fly through the merciful clouds

That adorns the Heavenly skies

I can not lie

I am but a wounded bird

Who is, but a hopeless slave to her own fears