This poem in inspired by a piece of sculpture.

The Bird

Death comes quick, like a bird
birthing an egg, quickly, quicker.
The wood is hard and split down
the middle. A force oozes down
the back splitting the bird open
dividing its psyche. The bird unfolds,
it comes down, descends with
a killing speed. It is blind with
one eye. The people in its grip hold
onto each other helplessly, they
are abandoned, lost beyond reason.
The bird is death.

2006 Anne Westlund

Poetry by Anne Westlund
Read 699 times
Written on 2006-10-03 at 04:51

Tags Death 

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