The Birds

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.

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