InsaneJournal

Current mood:	nostalgic
Entry tags:	poetry

Birds


I wake from a long sleep.
The sound of thunder lodges itself deep within my chest,
sinks in like a battle cruiser into the ocean.
I like how that feels.
The storm is coming.

There is something inside me grinning a sleepy sharp grin,
unfurling itself as the smell of ozone kindels the hunter instinct.
It wants to eat like the storm eats,
gobbling and tearing with gluttunous abandon.

I wait for the wind to start clawing at the earth,
to shred the grassland and whip the birds about as they attempt a panicked aerial escape.
Too late.

I will find them in the morning, broken doves and broken blackbirds,
twisted and forlorn and pitiful and mostly featherless,
the same pale skin peaking out from behind death.
I will feel worse for the blackbirds. I like them better.

With one large white stab from the sky I am blinded.
My heart jumps into action, a prodded dragon.
My pupils dilate and refocus. Fear.
That is the best part, after all,
not knowing if by the time the morning comes you will be swept away with the birds.