The Mirlo This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

March 26, 2010
The blackbird flies low,
swooping down towards my head as I run,
trying to escape from these demons;
these sorrows;
this disaster.
Piercing talons,
clutching at my heart,
ripping,
shredding,
bleeding.
Innocent,
it'd seem;
if only it trully were-
but the mirlo,
black and evil as satan's shadow,
is not gentle,
or sweet,
or innocent.
El mirlo,
the blackbird,
swoops down and screeches in my ear-
a soft voice,
but evil lurks behind,
and sorrow fills my veins,
untill my heart is as black and dull
as the rotting feathers of the blackbird's wing.
The gleaming red of it's eyes burns me,
but with a soft,
cool touch,
like ice,
on a summer day.
It flies low,
with perfect aim,
and grasps my soul,
shredding it as I watch.





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