The Common Shape of a Bird

 

Flashes of white appear before me, forging into the common shape of a bird.

The dove touches the ground with ease, melting upon the grass.

How can it render there and stare? How dare it resemble something more than blackness?

While diseases conform into my brain and I sit in mock awe.

How can you stare ahead while I stand behind unnoticed rotting into the earth?

I pray and I beg.

And I hope and I wish,

I see nothing, but my selfishness, and the deceit of the dark.

The forbidden forest that holds you like a baby while shushing you with its talons.

I stand behind and watch.

Where does the dove go? As it leaves the ark of Noah.

Should I be the man that collects the bird and saves it from its fate? 

Should I be the one to pierce its body with a silver bullet?

What must I do to save the dove, to save myself?

Love is fleeting, and goodness is pure.

All to which I know not of,

But the bird, as it sits there staring, somehow teaches me the love to sing.

This poem is about: 
Me

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