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Who knew the blackbird would call on me,
to be its savior to protect its life.
What a tragic way to cease to be,
knowing your hero isn't worth the strife.

Its cries will only be heard by the walls,
the ones who close their eyes to listen.
Its wings will start to beat to the falls
of the rain that makes his heart glisten.

As spring air turns to summer's peak,
black turns to blue and bluebird cries something shrill,
but the tempo quickens, the beast's too weak,
somehow bluebird doesn't have anymore will.

Bluebird sings its song to the flowers,
and songbird wilts, joining them for endless winters.





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ak92092 said...
Nov. 14, 2008 at 2:19 pm
this is great. you show great depth of emotion and introspection in this poem
 
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