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.

One comment

  1. Madvanthi · March 19, 2015

    Nominate you for the Liebster Award:
    Do you accept it?

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