Birds

I see birds in the black curved minds of miniscule rhymes. The nanowimo times coming three weeks in high. Christmas cheer and mocking birds gear to hide the grimace of the friendly touch. A love story of days when ice is gray and where the sun doesn’t come out. Break my heart because pain is the best salve for my callous soul and if I had the pain to tell my game to the world I would not need anyone. Though I rely on everyone. Oh the poetic fallacy of fate.

 

I think of words before my pen, or perhaps, my pen is telling me my words, would I think thus if my pen were black or red or green? Would I think of rainbows and dream in the cherry taffeta sleep but that I wrote in pink? Is blue so post mortem as to lend the deathbed’s sigh? Though I think from friends and friends of mine that death is not as glum as one would think. Mayhap there are parties with ribbon and bows. Black lacy wires in a morbid fantasy. Play hands deal our cards and sevens it is. Ace is wild for the ringed finger. And though some still bear the chains of their death, they take it in good humor and tell me I am mad, to not want to join just yet, to want to stay upstairs. But I do love the sky and clouds and green mountain air. Besides, in death there is no pain, and that is what I need to feel. The pain of living, of breathing, of sharing what I love with those of whom I stay clear. I share the pain of living with those I most wish dead, for if I take the hardest path it is my freedom I shall wed.

 

I dreamt one time of birds of all sorts, of crows and cardinals and lovebirds, two. I dreamt one time of wings of blue and red and gold and dreamt one time I’d dream again though not until I was very old.