Unborn Song
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no birds were harmed in the making of this poem
The robin's egg rolled far away from haven tree.
A wee devil's hole in its side.
I took a one eyed peak...nothing left inside.
What to do with such a perfect shade of broken blue.
Feed it to the trash heap hag.
To spend its final days with rotting fruit and metal rags...
So, I placed it gently on a nightstand.
Aside a windup clock.
Now I'm playing mother bird.
To caged time and unborn songs.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2016
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