Fear not the bird who sings in silence,
Or the poet who breaks rhythm and rhyme,
For they, the brave, do what many dare not.
The bird that sings breaks the silence of conform,
Her song rings out in defiance,
Her notes crescendo in strife to be heard,
Lungs burst in effort to be oneself.
The poet is a rebel of another kind.
His words speak out,
His form breaks the frame set in tradition,
He longs to be the bird and bleeds the ink of his pen.
His heart are the words,
The rhythm their pulse,
He writes his poem to the beat of the bird’s song,
Mournful and striving,
Hungry for release.
The song and poem grant a means by which we rebel.
But the song must end, the poem finish out.
I beg you,
Listen before the last note dies,
Read before the final line.
Fear the silence of the bird.
Fear the song that shall cease to be heard.