Thursday, February 11, 2016

Little Bird

The authentication,
Of the things before me,
Placed in this life, living no subterfuge,
As to what they should be,

Not because they managed to find their bliss,
Carved out amidst chaos,
The sparrow does not smile, draping sour thoughts,
Nor does it feign strength in face of great loss,

It does as every sparrow has done,
In the same circumstance,
A luxury of camaraderie,
Of communal conscience,
Or so we guess,
No one can really know,
If behind its seeming benevolence,
That little bird's a victim of sorrow.

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