The bird you captured is dead.
I told you it would die
but you would not learn
from my telling. You wanted
to cage a bird in your hands
and learn to fly.
Listen again.
You must not handle birds.
They cannot fly through your fingers.
You are not a nest
and a feather is
not made of blood and bone.
Only words
can fly for you like birds
on the wall of the sun.
A bird is a poem
that talks of the end of cages.
ScribbleDartsfromtheHeart 
Don’t know how I missed this one. What a beautiful and haunting poem. I could so easily see the captured bird and understand its passing. If we want to fly we must find our own wings.
Totally agree!! Awesome! love it