Little Bird

A poem about a man and a bird...

With darkness closing in,
I repent my worst sins.
A tinge of guilt
in my heart as
my soul starts to backpedal,
and swim back to shore,
as the rebel in me gilds
his sharp crown of thorns.

A bird sits on the windowsill
where a blood stain still remains.
The bird hides from the rain,
a painful sight to see indeed.
I cough again, and needles
rip through my throat.
A test of faith, I think.
The bird flutters little wet wings
and sings a song of gratitude.

"Adieu! Adieu!" I want to sing,
"to all you w****s I want to wring."
"And all you boars," filled with scorn,
"back to hell, from where I was born!"

But no audience is near, I fear,
except for this bird here, that I hear
through the thin wet glass
in the back of
this house
that my great-great-
grandfather once built.

Sitting on my windowsill,
the bird stops its song of gratitude.
I sit to watch a new attitude
as it hangs its head low.
My bloodshot sunken eyes struggle
to stay awake and not be swallowed.
I take a long blink as my tired
cold hand rests on my cheek.

The bird is not hurt or afraid,
not in any way. It just
waits and waits, staying
'till the storm passes away.

Its blinks slow and steady,
its head at rest and ready,
and its patience is beautiful,
powerful, glorious, serene.

That's it. Glorious.
Oh, how I wish
I was as glorious as you,
you little bird you.