We are the birds.
We fly black through the sky,
Though the smoke fills the blue like
The grip of a monster, we fly on.
The snow catches our shadows like drops of ink
Over clean parchment. It covers the ground,
Hiding the trees, missing leaves, hungering for the
Soft embrace of sunlight.
On, we fly.
We are the birds.
We think not of the ground below, but
Clouds and their spun-candy softness,
The wind and its gentle embrace.
We do not turn our eyes downwards.
We will fly on, until the earth and its suffering
Is little more than a map pasted on the back
Of our skulls, and we will fly on.
We are the birds.
YOU ARE READING
Shadow People and Other Poetry
Poetry“So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.” ~ Perks of Being a Wallflower. A collection of freeform poetry cataloguing my thoughts and feelings.
