Dusk pours her dregs of light on the weary bones draped in a corrugated yellow skin threading the silk suture
A melange of reverberations in the air-
a distinct chirp of hatchlings
calling it’s dame at prey,
the yellow tailed black cockatoo
spils it’s heart in gay.
while the nightingale sings it’s repertoire for the mind forsaken in love.
The bellowing of a rutting stag
triumphs the eve with pride.
And amidst this
the old man breathes
sewing plumes to the skin of a moose.
On the blood stained rug
rests the coffee mug, the black still as death- cold and glum.
Time is a lie, in this dingy labrynthine
since paralysis struck the clock in the spring of 1899.
The tale of the past speaks the cobwebs
aghast- making wings to soar up the sky
beyond the silver line.
A mind long sought,
to parley with Gods,
for foul conspiracy had coveted his sleeping child.
He limps through the woods at night
carrying a pole and a light.
Prowls around the roost and sets the straw ablaze,beats them to the ground and twists the birdies neck.
With a trail of blood
he retires forth,
a macabre hum echoing the tremoluos night.
He dumps them in the tub then chants an unholy prayer,
picks them by the leg
and dips them in the pail.
Pluming each with care,
his eyes a distant stare.
When the moon is smeared in blood
and the night shakes with ague.
The flowers wilt in grief
fireflies weave a wreath.
The winged souls sing the dirge
the cluttered mind, finally purged.
He wears his wings, head upright
ready to take his flight.

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