Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
-T.S. Eliot, "Burnt Norton"
April 18, 2012
The smell is overwhelming,
As last night's carnage hangs on the bedpost-
A testament to his conquest.
It wasn't the bird's fault, of course.
She wasn't aware she couldn't sing at night,
That singing was for mornings only.
The woman touches her soft feathers,
Sees the vacant look in her eyes.
She wonders if it would have been better,
Simply to imprison her-
But he would never allow that.
Suddenly the room is spinning.
The wings disintegrate between her fingers,
as the sun shines through the glass windowpane.
She's trapped again today.
If escape were an option, what would she choose?