Flight

High time I clip my proverbial wings
and assume responsibility,
but the apple juice that trickles from my lips
signifies my immaturity.
And while I've learned to harbor the actions,
I'm struggling with thought.
As if the snake that winds around my tree
has trapped me in a knot.
Leaving me bound, in perfect irony,
for I have a choice to make,
yet neither option presents itself
as a risk I'm willing to take.
And so, there's a comfort in helplessness-
my excuse for standing still.
The wings, though folded, remain unscathed
and probably always will.