Little yellow pet birds;
do they dream flight,
sing soaring songs?
Never feeling sky’s rush,
oak’s strength,
vibrating power lines,
hawk’s shadow,
tastes of blue,
crap on car windows,
catching early worms,
showering in rain,
tasting dawn,
flying in red skies just before night?
If freedom came suddenly
and wings worked air
quickly,
instinctively,
never landing,
never stopping,
no plan or destination,
never knowing what they were doing,
experiencing undefined fear and exhilaration simultaneously;
flying, flying, flying until they died of exhaustion;
would death framed in that scene,
be crueler than death trapped in an ignored cage of empty seed shells and bird shit?
My canary conundrum.
This is for dVerse http://dversepoets.com/
Emmet Wheatfall wrote an inspiring article challenging us to write about the craft poetic expression. Above is my feeble attempt. Please check the site out. There are some very outstanding poets!
Call me Hanq 