Evolutionary Games

It's there within my DNA
some gene that says I should have wings
I can feel the itch at night
along the sharpened edges of my shoulder blades.
In my dreams are whispered voices,
barely audible above the screams of silenced mouths
dreams which breathe of knowing.

I wake with pictures etched upon my lids.
All day long while I consume the grayness that's the day,
I blink and see bright wings against the sky,
blink again to wipe them neatly from my mind.

Last night I shed my clothes,
and searched in vain this tight cocoon of breasts
and cunt and legs,
searched for cracks, or ends, or strands to pull,
anything which would unwrap and set  me free.

What is this endless game that's being played
which keeps me hanging on the underside of expectation?





I wrote this poem when I was in my 20's and in college.  I found it in a pile of old papers and thought how true it was for me now in my 50's, but for different reasons.  I really would like to write poetry again, but it takes time, and it takes some focus.  I seem to have too many distractions, or maybe it is just I need practice and the will to try.