Freedom

I'd write on things
that'd make me think,
when they'd touch
my being so much,
that I'd start to sing.

With each story that
makes its mark
on the page, I’d
feel liberated, out
of the cage.

Of course, I’d write
to beat my boredom, 
my blues, but with
each requiem, I’d like
to found my kingdom.

Yes, I’d also want
to be read and heard,
but I’d dread to be
an imprisoned bird;

Like a poor peacock
trapped for its beauty,
isolated from his flock;
kept in careful custody
in a tailor-made garden;
with measured a, b, c,
in claustrophobic air
of a heavy heaven
he'd dance to the tunes of 
his rich and proud owner
before a captive audience
to show his performance,
with copyright credence.

I’d want to fly, high and low
in an open sky, with a rainbow,
I’d want to be in a free forest
where I’d enjoy the rain,
smell the petrichor fresh,
and build my unsteady nest.

I’d write my stories with
my feathers and my wings,
anytime, in any season,
be it in autumn or in spring,
whenever I long, wherever I'd wish.

Like a lark, like a cuckoo, 
like a magpie, a kingfisher,
like a tailorbird, a shoveler,
like an eagle gliding in the blue
I'd merrily chirp aloud,
under the sun, with the cloud.

The weather could be dry or wet
I could be alone, or with a mate.