In many ways, he became like everyone else.
After all, a poet cannot eat his words.
Often, he hid behind the curtains in his room, shuttered in the dark.
One night he dreamt of a bird, a starling I suppose,
gliding on long black wings.
He longed to follow that bird
so he stretched out his arms as he lay in his bed,
and drifted up into the sky.
At first he was afraid as he looked at the world below
until he realized there was no power left on earth
to pull him down, that gravity didn't exist in dreams.
That it would be impossible to fall.
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