Maybe I'm just a sad bird, I think
Always one doubt away from the brink
With one eye looking out for that thief -
Subterranean river of grief.
On a table stretched out to full length
Concentrating on yield versus strength
The warm fingers move down on my spine
To the nest of this sad bird of mine.
Its small home is embow'rd by my flesh
Blood and muscle encase it like mesh
On most days I pretend it's asleep
But it wakes when warm fingers push deep.
That's when sorrow blooms into hot pain
And hot pain drenches through like spring rain
And when these two are mingled and strong
The sad bird sings its sweetest sad song.