This room is filled
With thousands of tiny birds.
I hear their feathers ruffle
At the edge of my consciousness.
Are they parakeets?
Are they made of blood?
Such a deep red.
They peck at the stretching shadows
Across the ceiling of my room
As car lights bleed past outside.
They tap forlornly at the window.
I wonder if they will ever escape.
I blink as they cry and flee
Backwards into the
Corners of my eyes
Until they block up my
Tear ducts with their leavings.
Their cooing and preening grows faint.
The darkness closes in.
Nominate you for the Liebster Award:
Do you accept it?