Bird House

Chirab

As if upon a manicured piano,

My fingers play upon the letters

Before I have to deliberate the symphony

That must type you out.

A half-eaten apple,

My fallen sin.

Incomplete, inside my cells

Yet a sea.

Crisp textures of sounds

That make a colourful pattern for hunting birds

Which pick at fish meat, just before

I close my eyes and see you.

Precise.

When will that be?

 

A closing ground,

Distraught by the carcass of a pretty bird.

I open.

In macabre.

A dance of pink-lipped lizards.

In the night where men disappear into other men.

Seven fold.

With crooked pretty legs.

I hunger.

You don’t see me.

 

You open me up.

You spill me out.

You seep inside my stomach.

And eat at my heart,

It is moon shaped.

Clever;

A bastard of heavy-hearted thoughts.

Will you stay?

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