I’ve shot my last bird down.
Don’t plan on burying it this time around.
It doesn’t have a name or purpose.
What good are wings if it can’t fly?
I’m all too sick of setting things free,
Waiting around and watching them die.
Other beady-eyed birds sit up in the trees,
Swaying beneath them, the branches, the breeze.
Mourning the death of an old friend,
with a coo, a cacaw, a cluck and a cry.
Their sounds will sing silently in the end.
So, why do they even care to try?
They’ll all be in cages or intestines before too long,
Find a place to belong as they sing their sad songs.
What’s good for the goose is good for the gander,
Good for us all as we say goodbye.
I’ve got nothing in my pockets and nothing left to buy.
Just a penny for some thoughts and an eye for an eye.
So I wet my beak one last time,
let the detritivores and decomposers commit their crimes.
Until a creature comes along to pick at the bones.
That’s when I’ll let it alone, just let it lie
with the flesh, the feathers and the foul,
soaring so far beneath the sky.