She prodded the window,
letting the
illusions flicker
and glitch
— dance a little jig across
her outstretched palm.

Chained to this ornate prison
she was coerced
to live as a bird
hid away in
some ornithologist’s exhibit.

Each day had slipped into
spilled wine
fringes of gray.
The colors bleeding together
to balance a numb precipice between

every day
seeped through,
smoking through
the fabric as she stumbled down manufactured
stairs deeper
deeper into their ensnaring fibers.

Yet each stair was
the same color

the same
gray constantly boring

the same
embroidery
no pattern.

No end to its constant eyes
in every corner
her illusion.
Her clipped wings twisted
from side to side
exploring a gilded prison.

Its sounds
its glaring
echoed and reverberated
through her. She was going
through the motions. Breathing her reality.

Oiled joints
head a huge cog pushing
her wings along.

The branches nudged the window,
the glitches
exploring her hand.

She sobbed, as her hand
flickered and died
sparks flying above the gray

as her tears fell
her leftover song lost to
illusion.

Can we ever be allowed to sing if all we know is ivy
curling over the bars of our cage?