ꨄ 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑ꨄ

The broken-winged bird

Enwreathed were Death's gaunt tendrils, woven into Sorrow's sickly breath-
that buried within thy reeking scent, its complexion for e'er broken.
Its wings luminous were they not, but they be lustrous, to gaunt Death,
for its beauty laid within unspoken, covered with no one's token,
yet Death's kind heart took pity.

Hated were its broken wings, under the golden bird that sings-
"Let thy eyes be blind, thy voice be gone, and thy cry for e'er be bind,
for with thy grey face and gaunt wings, when will thou have my gilded wings?"
With its blind eyes unseeing of love, there lost his innocent mind,
yet Death's kind heart took pity.

"Who shall see my true gilded wings, from which my heart solemnly sings?"
cried the broken-winged bird, whose scent reeked of rot, its eerie songs blurred.
O'er roses' blood-bed that stings, they loathe the bird and gloat their bright wings.
The bird cries in wretched vain, a voice then sounds, "I love thee, my bird."
It smiled, for Death took pity-
The only one that took.