Bashed, and bashed, and bashed, and bashed, and bashed by the bluebirds as they storm past us. Black skies lit by the few streetlights, the asphalt cracked from all that neglect—all around me on the sidewalk outside our house. Yours and mine, all abandoned with the boards on the windows, eventually charred back to black, ashes to ashes in gust to gust, as far as the wind will take us, as long as for life we lust.
Fly little bluebirds, greyed by the dust; be a new bird, born proud from the rust. Let the grey skies not frighten you, nor beleaguer your breaths, seek out the circuits that bring wind to your wings, to fly always above the murk of the water, the bones of these cities.
Breathe, little life in the sky, that you fly is enough. Shut your wings to your sides, the harsh winds on your side.
YOU ARE READING
Reader's Notes
PoetryA growing collection of prose, old and new, from the teenage years: stories, passing thoughts, poetry. Mental imagery and dialogues straight from thoughts to text. Feel free to leave a comment with feedback or pointing out a small mistake somewhere...
