In May, the black bird on the beach mocks me
with the death that sits heavy on its bones.
Its beak is open, filled to the brim with the sea,
and I cannot meet its eye with its shining tones.
Now, if I filled myself with the sea it would spit
me out, disgusted that I would try death there,
when dust is meant to return to the land that it
came from. I just wanted to float a little, like air,
which lifted the black bird once, and so brought
it down when it couldn't support a deadweight.
Death knew it was time for me to go, I thought,
until I saw the black bird which death couldn't wait
upon. So even now as Death calls out for me, shaking
with desire, I know the waters are still unwelcoming.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
In May, the black bird on the beach mocks me
with the death that sits heavy on its bones.
Its beak is open, filled to the brim with the sea,
and I cannot meet its eye with its shining tones.
Now, if I filled myself with the sea it would spit
me out, disgusted that I would try death there,
when dust is meant to return to the land that it
came from. I just wanted to float a little, like air,
which lifted the black bird once, and so brought
it down when it couldn't support a deadweight.
Death knew it was time for me to go, I thought,
until I saw the black bird which death couldn't wait
upon. So even now as Death calls out for me, shaking
with desire, I know the waters are still unwelcoming.
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