When the Silver Bird takes wing
No one cares to notice.
No one looks it’s way to see
If it will falls or rises above the clouds.
The Silver Bird never caught an eye
Or thought to itself,
“Perhaps today.
Today they will admire
My outstretched wings and
Be in awe as I soar through the sky.”
To call a Silver Bird happy is,
By far, a hyperbole.
Whenever the Silver Bird
Thinks a thought of happiness
It is no longer a Silver Bird.
Instead the dread that is
It’s every thought
Defines the Silver Bird.
Hovering above the world
Is the home of the Silver Bird.
Without detachment
The Bird would fall to the ground.
And that would be the tragic end.
From the heavens, a Silver Bird is always watching
You do not see them,
As they linger far away,
They watch every movement
Of others, carefully calculating
The intent of others
Nevertheless, the ones who stop
And take the time observe the sky
The ones who pause and listen
Will be the first to gaze on the Silver Bird.
How unappealing is the Silver Bird?
With tattered wings, rotten beak,
No two Silver Birds look alike.
The only way to know of the Silver Bird
Is, simply, through ugly blemish.
That is the mark of the Silver Bird.
Then the fortunate one who is the first
To ever lay eyes on the Silver Bird
Will move on. They will forget
They ever caught sight of the Silver Bird.
After all, who would want a bird
As broken as the Silver Bird?
None.
That is what makes the Silver Bird a Silver Bird.