I sat in silence, maybe it was more like contemplation
When I saw a black bird flying all alone
He was a little fellow,
Flying close enough to show off his tricks
Somersaulting onto the telephone wire, making it hop.
It bounced up and down, the wire with the little black bird,
As if he was dancing to some invisible rhythm,
To the song that I hear inside of my head, it always sounds like my past;
An offered dance by a sky flyer; just another wandering soul gathering another stranger’s stories;
and relating to them through the knowledge he seeks.
The black bird peered at me from his perch; I think I heard him call out my name
He waited as if he expected some sort of response, but I wouldn’t
His fiery gaze locked onto my heart, my soul, and I watched him dissect me.
He clawed apart the boxes of displaced unhappy feelings,
Leaving torn pieces of cardboard to shuffle through; trying to decide what to save and what was lost.
The black bird saw in me, in a way that no one else could;
As he ripped out the tender moments that I find so endearing, like the song with the pathetic piano melody,
that always makes me relate to understanding;
Or, some of the various treasured stories I remember with my families;
the little black bird thought he found a few things that were interesting.
His eyes penetrated into the thicket of me
Cutting down limbs and moving all of the scattered debris
He worked until he trimmed the forest, he didn’t bother to burn it down.
I couldn’t hear anything, I could only see the demon above
Hovering, like some symbolic message or meaning
He smiled, his yellow beak opening as I hoped for a moment of truth;
but he just yawned and flew away.
As I watched his shadow fall into the darkness of distance, I remembered one thing;
Your eyes and the story I see.
My only thought; the “thing” to give me life.
I once worshiped you out of ignorance of being blind, so now I speak.
But the little black bird is a sneaky beast,
Making those he touches suffer the life of endless numbness.
A thief worse than the greedy monkeys who rule the world with fake money,
Their bills of Blood bounded together with the rubberband of us all;
a stretch, but we can draw it as a circle of light, life, love, laughter.
Where we can write down each memory one by one,
As a connected group of force to control the greed; they’re weak; we seek.
I want more than what the little black bird left me.
I snapped the band on my wrist and was shocked into remembering it all…
I am grateful for my treasured small comforts. ❤