Bird Song

This gilded glass cage keeps us singing

beautifully,

singing and dreaming, singing and

dreaming

of clear blue skies always out of

reach.

Our feathers draw her eyes in the

gaze

of the afternoon sun, our songs of

sorrow

fill her head with scenes of victorian

romance.

Our voices tire into a forced docility,

beaten

by the passage of the day. Sunset stills

us,

the dawn renews our Sysiphean toil.

Sing,

sing brightly and sweetly once more for

her.