Blue bird


It has settles already
On my shoulder
Pushed down my throat
This little canary

Of feathers so familiar
Colored in black -
Nature’s imitation
Scratching down my windpipe

crushing on my lungs
I breathe, for you my Lord,
Yet these tiles
Feel cold

The rain from this showerhead
Sounds close to frozen
My breath, did it kill it
Or did it kill me

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I believe poetry is to be felt, if then desired analysed. I don’t want to explain it, since it’s feeling transmitted through language.