Humid heat of early morning encases me in a duvet of discomfort
As I lay awake, seeing the one shade sky turn a pigment lighter (wishful thinking).
Even the sun sleeps. Eyes resemble hollow skull holes with nothing but emptiness dripping from them.
I feel like one, a skeleton, pale and dead and exhausted, and no one comes to my rescue.
Back hurts but too tired to move to comfort - birdsong -
Not that it matters because airborne water does its job of diluting it.
From this low bed position, I see a treetop swaying gently in the breeze
That carries no relief for this torment so I just suffer in - birdsong - silence.
Lone bird that sings, of nothing, joyously like an innocent child playing in the grass of the dead.
Not disturbing the lifeless sleepers with your incessant - birdsong - tweeting.
Littles bodies capable of singing - birdsong - so loud it echos in ears
And brings about peace like watching you fly with your dozen as I long to join that realm of - birdsong - serenity no human ever could.
And there's more of you! In that tree, twenty, thirty hand-sized beings join in a choir of pure nature.
Your wings feather my damp cheeks, its coolness wiping it all away.
Soothing stroking; cradle my infant form and sing that lullaby only meant for me.
Birdsong closes my eyes shut and lures the sun from hiding, its rays of light shine on the beautiful ignorance you're so full of.
YOU ARE READING
Landscape
PoetryYou only hinder yourself by concealing those feelings under a concrete mask. But remember, concrete cracks and I see your unmarred skin that's not tasted the flavour of living. You hide like a guilty thief. You steal away the experience so open y...
