Blackened substance, oh dry winged bird.
In my fall the scent of your petal
has locked your wary heart you so wish to settle.
I had just passed by peaceably,
sheepishly
with fury and forgotten,
until the glisten of coal black feathers
caught my eye, appearing as drift wood so rotten.
Reflecting my own obscene tears
of a world gone on over or after,
with many deaths of childhood laughter.
Your feathers burn, feathers marked,
a family cry like wounded helm,
a mug shot moon has transformed this realm.
A trail of hot bloody footsteps shove our shadows
and your horrific insides adorn the street.
I stare in drunkenness on shifting sidewalk
where lonesome figures call
whose fatigued tears, logically, cannot fall.
My vision focused on your eyes
softly glancing towards the very thing
that once carried your breast your beak your wing.
How unfortunate that Sundays always burn.
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