Verse, Jan. 25, 2010

A bird flew through my chest the other day,
and left a hole where once my blood had been.
A gaping chasm, ripped from hope and flesh,
The tattered edges fluttered in the wind.

I marveled at the beauty of the bird,
and at the grossness of the wound it tore.
It caught a breeze and carried on it's flight
toward some sweet nest on some exotic shore.

I shouted 'No! You cannot fly like that
Through hearts without a care for how they mend.
You have to exit back the other way
To touch this man and make him whole again.'

The bird had heard my cry and wheeled around
to hear a moment's worth of my lament.
It said, ' Well put, I've felt that way myself.
So sorry that this time your chest was rent.'

And then the bird flew on, it's song unchanged,
while I stood still, to think about my state.
Then stuffed the hole with flotsam best I could,
and set my teeth, and held my head up straight.

What lesson could I take from this sweet gash?
When should I smile and simply take the blow?
How could I learn to turn this to my good?
Who should I blame, or will I ever know?

For I have been the bird that flew right through,
and left a broken carcass in it's wake,
and wheeled back to assess the wounds,
and then took wing to seek another fate.

Can birds fly ever wing-to-wing, as two
or will the winds identify their paths?
Can two wounds ever stanch each other's flow,
or would that only be two lesser halves?

So sing on, bird, and sing on sweetly too!
And wound, I beg you, sing your sorrows well!
For on the earth we are but dust that blows,
and we live neither in Heaven nor in Hell.