Little Bird (first draft)

Like a little bird born into this world. Naked. Chirping lullabies to tall trees and Singing hymns to an almighty; getting back nothing.

I gathered up twigs and loose branches to build up my nest when nobody did it for me–– took time from my upbringing for the fitting.

I wake up to the noises of violent winds. I take my feathers and cover my ears, and twigs to hold me down.

I’ve made a barricade of old bark, Keeping me safe from the impossibility of the threatening ecosystem. Praying myself in place, hiding when morning shines and dress myself––in dark but not too dark––green.

I’m something but I tell myself otherwise: It’s too frightening to fly so I might as well cut off my wings. But that would be insensitive of me. Don’t mind that, I’ll pluck them when the feathers grow.

See I’m holding onto the something that makes me more than nothing. Clipped wings seem more ideal than no wings. For some reason I’m scared to let it all go; A little hope that one day I’ll keep them, like them, love them even and spread them to fly.

If it were only that simple, oh how pleasant the thought. Gathering leaves and flowers one day can add some colour, yet the wind wipes it clean the next––still pale brown and feels less like home than yesterday.

I may be afraid of everything, but I know I’m more afraid of dying here alone; whispering my melodies to dead butterflies.

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