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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, and got in your eye. |
| Your sanctuary waits, leans, tilting, guided by gravity yearning fresh meat. eyeing the ground — weathered, neglected haven, a comfy hovel you once called home nearer to hell. proudly, ‘I came from there’, no longer its caretaker, you abandon. ignorant of a hovel made of good wood… made no sound, you say, when it hit. flattened and you contest faultless, blameless. fool, that was your home. where do you fly to now, bare your brave breast among feathered kin? 9.3.23 Something I started when I noted the four-hole birdhouse on leaning pole, bashed by high winds, now uninhabitable. Compared it to ideals of man versus his roots and how we claim the best parts of something but don’t unite to save that community before too late — nearer to dystopian reality. Birds don’t live on the ground, usually. People aren’t usually hypocrites. They’re ironically ignorant without contemplation. |
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Great poem, Brian.
Dreams feel good though. Thanks for posting this one, Brian 
