The Songbird

Fatherless
and thus denatured
she created a blue mask
and sang for pennies
of a life of romance
she never knew herself,
but the tunes were worth
the tears she forced
from her listeners, and they paid
more than that for them,
so she lived well
a life of creation
and character play.

Meanwhile,
a bird she’d been
for a short time, a bird
who’d fallen with her broken shell
to earth, died slowly,
unremarked in any lyric,
did not learn to fly,
and it’s hard to say
that’s a tragedy,
but I will, even though I might
be incorrect;

she would disagree, I think,
having most comforts in her hand
and no need to seek in the bush
for the fledgling past, yet
I know a song or two she tried
back then, and I swear
no money could buy them,
they were that lovely
and warm and true.

Blogged with the Flock Browser

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

2 responses to “The Songbird

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