CROATIA/DYING BIRD

 

as the wind stretches

it yawns

across broken lands

it brushes over lost bodies

disparate and battered

blown, scattered into that state of timeless disposability

 

who knows how much human body-waste

the wind has witnessed

as histories soul bleachers

educators of the singular

create yet another bombast, carnage path

for others to unwillingly adhere to

 

this wind

part of the nature scene

has seen

too many things

if only it could blow away all the pains,

cleanse this shabby place

of places

 

it blows through, above and over

not able, unable to change what is blown apart

a crumpled psyche

in a world dissected by mythology, dreams and ideals

tired inventions and pretensions of what could be

and some have been too willing to be

what they cannot be

 

Croatia is a dying bird

 

us, the other birds

watch...

flapping around hovering in the wind

waiting to see which way the wind will blow

all birds are mortal

waiting for the drop

 

short of breath

short of sky

the creature could do nothing but cry

as days passed

 

the beak would peck at the glass

trying to peck through the window,

wanting to escape the trap

it yearned for flight once more

 

others

outside

flew by

looking in

 

unable to break the spell of what was cast

it's wing flapping hitting out

in frustration, crazed

 

morals come and go

yet we will never know

why we waste our time

creating each one of them

 

shadows collude

and move around this place

as night cloaks the scenery

in here

as the feathered martyr rests

slightly jittering

holding onto

the last embrace

 

time grinds on

leaving the dead behind

to become mere memories

as life rushes ever onwards around it

 

the bombing has paused.......

here lies a dying woman

not just a woman

but a woman who knows the wrath of insecure masculinity

 

she thinks......

are we all merely

headless lost creatures?

 

here I lie

one leg less

and many dreams less

 

if only the tears

that which I churn

could fill the gap blown asunder

 

are we tomorrow's ghosts

laying down snares

for future lives?

 

dead is gone

lost is not found

end is - finish

 

and the wind

it blows

it moans

it stretches it's invisible limbs

across the battered land

 

oh surely there's hope

once we've realized, loss of hope

 

but still the bird is trapped

caught between non-reason and hope

dangling on the gropesome

x mark's the spot

mapped out, worn out

and the wind?

It still blows.....