Is there nothing more mournful than a ball of feathers,
All dirtied and darkened,
Pressed into the asphalt like gum.
That which once soared,
Reduced to a thing dead.
Unable to become unstuck.
Winds no longer kiss the tips of its wings,
Its breast, banished and flattened,
Forever a stranger to the smiling sun.
Worn by the pavement, as a tattoo.
A symbol of possibility, of immutable hope.
Muted, impossible.
A dead dream. A fossil.
No comments:
Post a Comment