Dreams of Dying Birds

Updated: Mar 4

The dreams I often recall

are dreams of dying birds

A blue-bird striking at it’s prey

Wings delayed

a scraping slip-away

A dark brown crow on my balcony rail

purple flower 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 the thorn trees

Sometimes the swallow just fades away

a likeable 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 putty-root

Suddenly someone starts grabbing my claws

Dragging me down an unconscious state of gore

The dreams I remember

The dreams where I fly

Higher and higher soaring in black 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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