He pressed a small arm to his rib cage and trapped a bird inside,
the smile on his face as bright as the pink in his lips;
A momentary flash of guilt-like pleasure coming to
his grin, quick and fading,
like the warmth draining
from his skin.
he is alone
and allowed his sumptuousness.
The bird freshly red, squirms like the worm hanging from its beak
or more, the remnants smeared across its cheek;
Half of the segmented body still twitching,
as if in efforts to shake off
the last few parcels
the bird had only
A tiny, opalescent jewel covered in dust,
dirt, and the grime of this boy’s two
hands, the bird sees; the cruel smirk of his grin
and how he tightens his arm just to hear it wheeze.
That boy, a martinet in a scarf;
with the cocoa his mom made still on his breath,
to fading lights
and broken bird ribcages.
Or the gray feathers that began to fall
like cigarette ashes by his side.
He sits on the icy skirt of an oak tree, glances at
the windows of his house,
those pregnant with life;
As the bird glances
upward, and seeks something like
In the silver laced sky
and spider web branches;
The half-dead winter trees beginning to sway,
pulling wind through their fingers;
Soft and low
like a prayer.
The bird allowed
The lament a resurrection, bringing temporary
life back into the little bird body;
Gentle as a sigh, or sunlight breath upon its brow
The tree folk bending at their waists
to bring the melody closer;
Knowledge locked in their kneecaps
and sorrow pouring from
This type of destruction,
steeped and buried,
many years ago.
How the boy absentmindedly picks at his gloves
and pulls his scarf tight around blistering lips,
the pale skin of his fingers and forearms
turning light hues of blue;
Losing color like the bird,
much like it.
As the wind’s whistle begins to sound
a bit too bitter to bear,
dropping the now lifeless stone
with a dispassionate palm,
hearing nothing of the noise
The Megacosm Symphony,
he had composed—
with those two
-D.N.B 1/30/13 edited: 3/28/13