Dreams of Dying Birds


The dreams I often recall

are dreams of dying birds


A blue-bird trying to run from it’s prey

Wings delayed

a scraping slip-away


A dark brown crow on my balcony rail

purple flowers in its beak

A tear in it’s gaze


Sometimes the swallow

begs for assistance

It isn’t able to obtain it’s existence


To abscond. To take flight

forced to believe

a tired, dire fate above thorn trees

Sometimes the swallow just fades away

a likable bird

disappearing. No trace


Sometimes I’m the bird. Flapping and falling.

Fighting to stay airborne But death my true calling


These dreams always come

soaring with soot

leaving my feathers like burned puttyroot


Suddenly someone starts grabbing my claws

Dragging me down

An awake state of gore


The dreams I remember

The dreams where I fly

Higher and higher soaring in gloom skies


Hopeful to escape my own dreary mind

But the birds in my dreams

They always die


I must have mentioned

These dreams I remember

The birds always die. They die. And they die


With bloody feathers

scattered and scorn

carried by wind. Away and forlorn


No bird could survive

my subconscious brain

The birds in the sky will die everyday


The birds in the cage try staying awake

Chirping and screeching

hoping to escape


Instead all they are

Witnesses to pain

Grief. Sadness. Living with ache


I am a bird

I‘ll die someday

Maybe sooner if I keep flying straight



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© 2019 by Michelle