Songbird

Through a kaleidoscope you see,
Tainted vision turning a crow
Into a songbird.

But a songbird who cannot sing,
Is a dead bird.

I am a feather, colorful and bright,
Tainted by the black ink you use to write
Your envy.
Your unrest.
Your misery.

Black, black ink that seeps through
The veins like poison,
And drains the color like blood.

Dripping, dripping, dripping, dripping
Ink upon the paper,
Rhythmic noise from the tip of my tongue
Writing the song of your own despair.

But the songbird will not sing.

Deeper, harder, darker lines,
Again and again and again until
I no longer touch paper.

Over and over and over, as if somehow,
It will change.
The same song, repeated, broken, shards
Of sound
Of pleas
Of cries
Of screams
Of agony

But the songbird will not sing.

Why won’t the songbird sing?

The ink runs freely, down the page,
Staining
Staining
Dripping
Dripping
Bleeding
Bleeding

Blood from worn fingertips
From a weary tongue
From a punctured heart

And the songbird will not sing,

Because the songbird was always dead.