Friday, October 3, 2008
i feel dry. i feel stupid.
thinking that something is lurking,
perhaps there is nothing. the willing victim of
paranoia and speculation. and trying too hard to be prepared.
the best defense is a good offense. unless you're offending the wrong ones.
i'm trying not to leave you out.
i'm trying to let you in.
i feel like i'm trying to force a dead bird.
there is no
resurrection for this breathless bird. revive her and
she must start all over—her friends and family have fled.
the feathered idiot choked on all her tears. and seeds that never bloomed.
this cage is comfort and home,
a place to finally rest that beak
from all its pecking and pulling, and
shredding and gnawing
at all the things that kept her grounded and
staring at the shavings. and.
old droppings from
those who have passed on.
there must be a secret. to the flock.
that she has never known.
so, she will give away her feathers,
one by one,
until those who cannot fly
may fly to where
she had hoped to be found.
who wish for wings—
pluck a feather with your fingers.
she will not feel a thing
it is as though she is sleeping
still and silent
on the bottom of the cage—one
wing pointing to the sky,
the other like a pillow on which to rest her
her mind is quiet now
her eyes no longer wander
she lay down so that you and all who dream
could take and grasp
without pain or tear,
now i will let my eyes fall upon
so that they may empty themselves of all
all their fire.
all their nightmare: all the paranoia.
i am weary of lurking and. offending and.
trying too hard.
give her breath again.
it is time to sprout
a new kind of feather— that she may rise,
to follow that wing—
for: the heavens.
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