I hear the words in the birds.

Each tweet

They scream for me

The feathers grow in my hands

They kill my seams

 

I ruffle the lines, and fly

Fly through the waters of

Of what.

 Nothing what.

Nothing.

But solace.

 

Hopeless love

The kind that blooms

And twists as a vine flows

Up the trees branches and whims

The kind that hopes

A hope.

That never lives…or dies

 

Wings clipped and drowned

I am bird that lives in lies.

A lie to myself of where I’ll be, is and were.

Were.

I was something.

Something of nothing.

I was loved.