Song bird
Her limp body sways in the frosty morning air. Already, ice has coated her tattered dress; it holds her in a winter embrace. Her once perfect hair, now in a loose bun, shades her lifeless face. No more will her eyes stare into the depths of my soul. No more will her smile shine throughout the darkness of my heart. This woman held me close to her and once told me that life is a kiss on the cheek; it can be cold and lifeless or warm and kind.
If only this child of life would come back to me. Oh, the pain of death. It is as cold as ice, as sharp as the deadliest blade, and as evil as the serpent.
I step forward and look at this angle of death.
I look at her blue chapped lips. Once they smiled.
I look at her green eyes. Once they cried.
I look at her fine face. Once, it was warm, but now, it is cold.
I put my hand to her cheek. Slowly my hand slides down to her now long neck. The necklace of rope holds my beloved in its foul grasp. Pulling the knife from my belt, I cut her loose. Her dead weight, falls into my shaking arms. Slowly, I lower us to the snowy ground. Finally, tears are streaming down my cheeks. I know that my song bird would not want me to weep, but I must.
Memories of us by the fire begin to play in my head. “Little song bird, wont you sing me a song” I would say. A shy smile would light up her youthful face, and she would begin to sing.
Why oh why must we die
For years we would play, never thinking of the day
Now that it is here, there are no more tears I can shear
Don’t weep little one, for I will see you soon
For years we will play, never having to think of the day
No more she will sing, for her day has come.
Goodnight my song bird. May your voice make the angles cry.
