The common cold.

Even the lightest
Loftiest, lovliest room
Begins to feel like a prison.
A cell.
Concrete walls of the mind
Uncrumbleable by any pick,
Or spade or other smuggled item.

A crow comes at visiting hours,
Pressing his beak to the glass
Tapping his nose against it
Then flys off. Free as a bird.
And all you have, for your concrete thoughts
is the flapping of black wings.

For where lies the balance,
between jealousy of wings,
and overwhelming thankfulness
for the reminder that some things fly at all?

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