The unmistakable smell of wet grass
sunshine trickles through the cloud cover
bathing a sweeping meadow in a golden hue
up from the weeds stands a small figure
two legs made of fallen branches
and arms of leaves and moss
upon his head was an old bird’s nest for hair
and a cracked smile of bright green thorns
mother nature’s son, he was
everything she had hoped he could be
at his waist was a sword with no sheath
crafted from a single blade of grass,
it glistened with the dew around him
for three whole months, he played in
that sylvan meadow and poked his head
in and out of the shadows cast by
the trees around his home
he knew his boundary, and yet
the curiosity of the world outside
became too much for him to handle
the prospect of other meadows served
as the lure for his insatiable desires
his mother watched quietly as he took
the first steps into the forest, and alas,
those were also his last
for when he stepped from his paradise
he began to unravel; slowly at first
but then so fast that he hardly knew
what was happening, until it was
far too late to stop it
carving a path out of the meadow
there stood a trail of parts, each
blossoming again in the spring air
what he had paid for with his life
was the hope of another being
to continue outside the meadow
living on a lavender hill, his mother
sighs contentedly and twists
flowers and vines together
and starts on her next child.

It must have taken courage
to fight the way she had;
the problem with fighting yourself
is that you’ll always end up losing
broken glass littered the floor
of the hotel balcony
crunching underfoot and
leaving specks of blood
on the railing where she leapt

And she did leap, that was certain
there was no one else around
and that was the issue
there wasn’t a note to be found
the front door left open a crack
so that a curious soul might
put two and two together and
realize that the body which had
plummeted eleven stories
was the one that belonged to
this room of things
her story eternally tied to
a ratty armchair and a kitchen
full of unsolved problems

Upon closer inspection,
the only thing out of place
in the whole situation was
her face, covered in paint
not the kind you’d redo
your living room in but
rather the apache kind
designed to strike fear
into the enemy in war
broad white and red bars
emblazoned across her
cheeks and forehead
a simple reminder of
her ferocity in life

Sometimes, I fancy myself a bird
not just any bird, mind you, but
a swift bird of prey;
the auburn and grey plumage.
I am a kestrel, a thief of life’s goods
the hunter of the open plains
razor sharp eyes spot movement
talons clutch the still moving prey
as I take off again for heaven
soaring above the city,
I take no notice of man’s ardor
or his creativity or construction
the only thing my mind focuses on
is what shall be the next target
I am no eagle, the king of the skies
to be fair I have no noble blood
instead, I bear the incomparable
position of having all and being nothing
such freedom it gives me!
savoring each morsel of life
between every beat of my wings
the north wind whispers
its most secret desires
that all may live like this