A Sonnet to an Unheard Death

October 13, 2008
By Leigh Burnett, Richmond, VA

There I sat in the coldest of weather,
On a park bench in a snow covered strip,
Next to a bird of blackened feather,
Whose beak did foster a puzzling chip.

And out that chip a deep red blood did pour,
A blood that covered the snow-ridden ground,
A blood that surfaced from its very core,
A blood that preceded an awful sound.

It was like a sound I've never since heard,
A sound deaf to the tender ears of man,
Like the cry of a dying man averred,
Who had lost all hope for he saw no land.

After this final scream his eyes went red,
And soon enough the tiny bird was dead.

The author's comments:
I was inspired to write this to give a voice to the unheard deaths of all creatures, both of feather and skin. To Death, I fear you. To life, I bid you mercy. Enjoy.

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