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The white snow falls Onto the dull blue heron, Turning it white. Making it better. The previous heron was filthy Unworthy to be gazed upon By anyone’s eyes. The snow which fell upon The dull blue heron, Dirtied from the mud Was truly a miracle. To think that nature Would even touch that disgusting Atrocious being- No, not being. It is simply less than that. Not a heron at all, Let alone a bird. Barely able to be called a creature, And yet nature still purified it. What a lovely story. The dull blue heron walks Covered in snow, The waves of which Never stop. Snow falls, and falls, and falls, And falls. The mind of the heron Is clouded. Birds bite into the dull blue heron Like bitter chocolate. The heron cries. Dull blue tears, Fitting of a dull blue heron. The heron is no longer blue. The heron is now worthy Of being called a creature. The heron is white And has been drowned, As nature And everyone Wanted. If it hadn’t happened, It would have been better For the dull blue heron To not exist at all.
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Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 9:18 PM UTC
Dull Blue Heron (10/25/19)
The white snow falls Onto the dull blue heron, Turning it white. Making it better. The previous heron was filthy Unworthy to be gazed upon By anyone’s eyes. The snow which fell upon The dull blue heron, Dirtied from the mud Was truly a miracle. To think that nature Would even touch that disgusting Atrocious being- No, not being. It is simply less than that. Not a heron at all, Let alone a bird. Barely able to be called a creature, And yet nature still purified it. What a lovely story. The dull blue heron walks Covered in snow, The waves of which Never stop. Snow falls, and falls, and falls, And falls. The mind of the heron Is clouded. Birds bite into the dull blue heron Like bitter chocolate. The heron cries. Dull blue tears, Fitting of a dull blue heron. The heron is no longer blue. The heron is now worthy Of being called a creature. The heron is white And has been drowned, As nature And everyone Wanted. If it hadn’t happened, It would have been better For the dull blue heron To not exist at all.
I was 15 when I wrote this as per the date by the title. One of my few poems that rely on some kind of symbolism
#society#symbolism#conformity#pressure#sad#birds
Written by
archaicphilosophy
17/Transmasculine/in my head
Dec 2, 2020
Dec 2, 2020 at 9:18 PM UTC
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