Little Bird Poetry

 Familiar hardwoods Creak beneath socked feet Golden street lights  Flutter through wooden shutters Cold roof tiles Cling to bare skin Smoke curls into the night sky Dancing with the constellations Moonbeams light the edges of my home My sister sleeps peacefully  As the darkness passes on Cars pass by  Unaware Of the girl Who sees her world from above Wishing the day might never come

 The ice clinks crystal as the liquor pours Another sunset Another sky of stars And yet I simply feel the same  Why is it We can have the clock move Yet not a damn thing changes Wheels turn  Hoping to arrive At new destinations Only to repeat the same cycle Forcing work out To never win the race Striving for a goal Always unattainable

Every mile that passes washes over like the rain Laying on soaked concrete as the droplets deep into pores Clinging to eyelashes Sliding down the corners of my eyes in the trail tears follow Wild woodland Pointed peaks Sapphire seas Fields scattered as golden amber heads sway in mid fall breezes I crawl to it Begging to be given merely an ounce of what they hold Freedom  Just as the vultures ride upon currents of air Seeking what others have tossed aside as refuse Using it to not only sustain But thrive  I wish for bare soil Blue skys Or raging storms that clatter in the southern summers I dream of places that exist Ones that brush my finger tips But are never close enough to grasp Anything but another day of the monotony For I fear it may turn me to stone Cold Unfeeling  With eyes that no longer seek Ears that no longer listen Finger tips that don’t feel A heart carved into my chest That fades with time  Until it is no longer there 

Gravel roads pass slowly beneath earth caked tires as beams dance amongst passing souls aged within the quiet back country. A soft blanket of wool blots the holes in the heavens. Hush passing between two flames as they flicker on into the dark. One hangs heavy as atlas does, bearing the load of both themselves and all souls who gravitate too close. The other flickers unhindered as the crackles pass between. What is it that stokes the fire who burns only to warm those around it, not caring to cause the spark that fuels it’s existence. The other climbs high to lick the sweetness of new kindling, not to create warmth, but to build itself into a roaring force in which it may consume the tender woodland that seems a mere cage. Why bring them so close when one draws away, fearful of no longer sharing its essence to those whom huddle for life, yet takes no effort to feed it. Why now bring a candle to lay next to a wildfire, if it may not be consumed.