The bowstring hums a funeral hymn,
a silver note across the dim.
Feathers scatter, soft decay—
to kill a voice, to kill a day.
Mockingjay, your throat of fire,
sings rebellion, stokes desire.
Yet in the woods, the shadows say:
the huntress comes to end your play.
Arrow sharp, the silence bending,
who is prey and who is ending?
The hunted flees, the hunter waits,
both are bound by mirrored fates.
For every song that dares take flight
is marked by blood, is marked for night.
To kill a Mockingjay is harder than it seems.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry collection
Puisicollection of some of my original poems dark, deep, joy filled, sorrowful and so on hope you enjoy.
