Dead bird

Dead bird

Ceramic carcasses dance
ludicrously inside my head
And I crush your skeleton ,
little dead bird that never lived.

I shed no tears for your mediocre minutes
Of half felt life.
And no remorse comes
As I observe your crushed form
Upon the black, black sea.

Little dead bird,
I will allow you the luxury
Of living within me.
I shall nestle your
Fractured form within my chest
And warm you with the dampened beat of my heart.

I shall lie for hours imagining
Your ceramic bird song
And I will dream of the tears
That I will never cry for your swift passing.

Worship your sacrifice in the name of art,
And not think of all the other things you could have been.

I sip tepidly from a ceramic mug which
Feels eerily like you,
In a land of other possibilities.
And as it goes crashing to the ground,
Shattering into tiny pieces,
I collapse and sob for the mug that was never you.

O little dead bird,
Why do you lie so still, So solemn.
Your pointed beak taunts me endlessly.
I withdraw my hand which is pockmarked
With imaginary bites.