Photo by Robert Eklund on Unsplash

I see the wings of birds slice the air
they glide so gracefully, knowing no end.
Free to go from place to place
to see a new country, a new body of water,
to see a new face.
If I had wings, I would fly until I tired:
away and away like a bullet that’s been fired.
Instead, I sit, encased by concrete and steel,
Knowing these thoughts can only be dreams,
never real.

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Robert M.

Robert M. is a Mexican-Irish writer incarcerated in California.