J's Musings

A bird flies off,

Starting at the branch,

It lifts its wings,

Bends its feet;

And jumps-

Flying off to clouds we cannot see,

Alas one can only hope so,

For it drops:

Like the apple once did,

On the soft earth,

The bird withers in pain,

Its bones broken-

Dignity leaving its body with screams,

The mud salts the wound;

And the cry turns disoriented…

What Beethoven’s deaf ears

Would call melancholy,

I watch from the grass,

As the birds of his feather,

Gather-

The rains pour upon us all,

The drops a constant patter on our back,

A sharp pain.

Though the bird,

Only finds it to be the sky stroking his gentle figure

With tears.

I walk up to the grave

The pain struck eyes stare back at me,

As I do the burying

While nature does the mourning…