Young Bird

B O E
R K N….
Is the bird, that’s forced to fly too young…

Unspoken….
Are the words, stitched away inside…

Shattered….
Is the feeble fang of the serpent born too soon

Howling….
Is the wolf, lost in nights of noon…

…dekoorc
are the limbs, of trees chopped down by spite

living…
are the dead, for that is human rite…

Known…
Are the lies you hide down deep inside…

T h r o w n…
Are the insults spat at passerby…

CrOwNeD…
Is the king, whose smile is made or poison…

Silent
Are the thoughts of abberate delusion…

And through the silence, sounds are kept unheard
Just voices without meaning…
Just flocks without birds…
Though I dare not say what happened…
Just to keep this all inside…
I will tell you one thing…
Death is life’s main tide.