Great opportunity led me here.
Sang the bird who sits on my windowsill.
My feathers are worn, and my wings are tired she said.
Watching the shadows cross the room.
How many oceans must she have sailed over I pondered.
What sights to have seen, soaring across bus stops.
Why do you come to me, I queried.
She whistled and cocked her head.
For that worm in your mind of course.
I closed my eyes and watched it slither then.
Oh, I answered; knowing what she meant.
That doubt has grown, and now writhes inside you.
I know. I replied.
So you’ve come to take it away? I asked curiously.
The shadows seemed to retreat now.
She hopped and chirped. That little new friend on my windowsill.
Yes, and to make you fly again?
She flew then into my skull, I could hear her in my head.
Flapping and flailing like a moth by a light.
My soul. My conscience. Trapped inside, for a moment.
How will you make me fly, I wondered.
She heard these thoughts of course.
And she answered, as she gobbled up that fat worm of doubt.
To remind you, you have always had your wings.
You just feared to take off.
Scared to try.