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Mocking Kills Birds

September 4, 2015

I am a wounded bird,
unseen, unheard,
pinned to the ground
blossoming bruises
underneath skin pulsing in pain;
feeding off abuse
that reverberates off my vertebrae
leaving repulsive stains and bloody tears.
Eyes glued shut, grasping blindly for a grip,
gasping raspy breaths that catch 
as they slip through my lips to my throat –
no sound to be found down there,
only thin air and weak lungs
tired of shouting my right to exist
and my fight to resist sharp bladed tongues.
I rest.
Take time to cough up bloody remnants of memories
scarred deep enough to be remembered,
but healed enough to be sealed shut.
My tin-can heart is
dented relentlessly
from years of violence and
my art of staying silent,
so I work at it.
Immerse my tired hands
in emotional murkiness;
fix the sadness leaks and
loneliness creaks until I’m whole
for the first time.
I sleep.
I let my wings grow strong
out of all the wrong done to them,
pull arrows out of bones broken,
not shattered,
and let them learn how to mend,
how to bend and fly again.
Dawn slips upon the world
pouring soundless sunlight down my
newfound feathers,
storing energy for the
long flights, the black nights
For when the darkness in me
flutters back to life;
But today I am flying.
I am born again, airborne
High above the world torn with strife
Far away from every brick and knife
I am a peaceful bird,
unseen, unheard.



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  • September 4, 2015 - 9:54am (Now Viewing)

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