Writing workshop plus cold and flu pills equals

What then begins to fly is stuck in mud;
the sucking as it tries to break away,
to take a holiday from ropes and locks,
like Christmas peace, discarded wrapping rocks,
the cake and treetop star that frowns around
the room as platitudes dispensed for kids
that cry ‘Unfair!’ with sugar boiled blood,
their wibble wobble jelly venom sharp.
The star that flies in skyward streaks to run,
escape on feathered limb, but always brought
to earth among the fluff in a battered box;
a fate she can’t escape, she can’t live down.

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