For Siena

She is,
For lack of a better cliché,
A bird of sorts. 
Wingspan as wide
As the Indian Ocean,
Feathers glisteningly dark
Like the songs she prefers to sing
On the warm nights
When she knows most people will hear
Some days her songs
Sound more like cries
Muffled by wings
Wrapped so tightly around herself
That she finds it hard to breathe.
You see,
There's no space,
In this cage 
She has constructed
From her own broken bones.
And when one day
She sees that this skeleton
Of a cage 
Is no match for wings
With the power of an ocean
She will fly fast and far
Under guise of night
To a place where the trees are filled 
With nests of broken bones 
And where the moonlight
Reflects so perfectly off her wings
That she knows she must be home.