The Internal Crane

It begins as a cut that doesn't bleed.
A tiny hole. A planted seed.
A prick that over time becomes,
a mortal wound - a salve that numbs.

And deep inside, where none can see,
the seed becomes a branching tree.
Beneath its roots, a slender bird
whose folded wings have never stirred.

It shelters in the gentle swell,
where spirit and emotion dwell.
Bones of sorrow, wrapped in light,
beneath the roots, it dreams of flight.

A piece of soul and tender heart,
that cannot be pierced, nor torn apart.
If the wound is deep, the crane awakes -
on the searing edge of hurt, escapes.

You cannot say you have not felt -
the snapping whip, the rising welt;
Numbing cold, waves of pain.
The sweeping flight of the internal crane.