my body rests in a black
hole—s u p e r n o v a s whistle,
calling for my aching soul
to be free; to fly away with
plucked wings of misery hanging
onto the ends.

in this old despondency of day and
night, of haunted memories dripping
of the edges of the coffin, my paralyzed
body lays in a s t a t e o f  a w e, wondering
was this ever worth the scars and
fiery tears?

                                  {was anything worth it?}

his voice sings of bitter sadness, as
he perches on my b o n e s—sinking his
claws in, tearing the flesh of man
and death. he hates the m o n s t e r he has
become, a predator of his own kind. he
hates the l i e s he feeds to himself on
the days where he is starved from the
t r u t h.

his feathers, dark and meek, like a sea
with trash and t i n t e d cans, ruffle as he
weakly closes his eyes, opening one
to watch the black tear slide down my
cheek. he tilts his head and takes in
all of the b i t t e r  s c a r s in the world;
                                                          after all, we are only
                                                          a m a n and a b i r d, trapped
                                                          in a  c o f f i n  of  n i g h t m a r e s.
                           

                                                               {and there is no