Bird Song

There was a bird,
That was soaring through drunken days and sober nights.
It’s wings,
Were fluttering gracefully, making the winds cry.

That bird,
Was beginning to loose its flight.
It’s wings,
Were punctured by an arrow that shot through the layers of blind light.

That bird
Lost its balance with harmony by falling from grace, falling from biblical height
It’s wings,
Were broken like the promises that were made from it’s beak.

That bird,
Was a decaying corpse of manipulation in sight.
It’s wings,
Were turning into ashes from the colour of pure white.

That bird,
Rotted away for seventeen years, it’s fears turned into spite.
It’s wings,
Shriveled up like skin on a dead body floating in the immortal night.

That bird,
Lived with regretful whispers that broke down it’s might.
It’s wings,
Were like closets, filled up to capacity with weights that made the bird weak.