Just out of reach,
the suckling mockingbird upon the Willow teases.
She sings a song of poetry,
rife with meaning, but
only to her.
She tells of great things, splendorous pursuits,
and attracts all who should dare
to pass by and lend an ear.
And I stare,
with visions of grandeur
and hope for something as true to time
as the passing of such,
with the chains of tomorrow within mine eyes.
And I listen,
to every song, every note,
with the marvel of time
ringing through my ears
as it moves through towards an ultimate demise.
Transfixed.
I am,
as I stand to enjoy the precious moment,
as still and sure as her flighty, beating heart,
knowing
any move shall cast her south toward warmer climates
and stiller waters.
And as I listen to her sing and stop
and sing some more
of her stories, her drifts through the sky and
drafts oft turned to journeys,
I come to see her heart.
I come to see her life.
And I endeavor to show her mine.
So with great effort,
I tear free the padlocks which time has so
firmly entombed upon my mind and chest.
I wrench them free,
screaming,
as the fire spreads through my veins,
as the poison finally leaks outward of my mind.
I fall,
as my legs give way to the weight of the yesters,
and my eyes search for the person I was
in the dirt of childhood's battleground.
Meanwhile,
startled, scared, delicate,
my mockingbird lifts away and moves on to other lands,
never to return to me.