To Live, Flightless Birds

A single branch, clawed and pecked, fickle and straining, Lonely Nestling and father, paw and peck at their home Lonely branch, spasms in the wind Nestling and father paw and peck, yearn and whimper These Flightless Birds, on a fickle branch Young nestling skitters to the branch’s edge Peers over on to sightless depths Shivers, ruffles withered feathers Spreads tousled wings And loosens fast aging down Stretches till overgrown talons graze the edge Like endless days before, Craning aching neck Eyes devouring the scene with a famished hunger- And whimpers Turns to father and warbles in longing, A sight that speaks of flight Dreams of swimming amidst the clouds To leave -slightest breeze carries words... to live The father, neck cramped, tilted, eyes swivelling to and fro Cooing and cawing, talons pawing A slight breeze, decrepit feathers hauled away in swarms A forlorn sight that reeks of abandoned dreams Warbling, cooing and cawing, pleading and pawing Pecking in apprehension, neck swivelling to and fro in exasperation “To leave father! To stretch my wings Lift from them the smell of rot and loss To fly father” “To fall! To fall, and to die!” -Wind whispers, To fall, to soar, and to live Nestling shuffles to the edge, Settles down amidst aching joints and a teetering ledge Peers down onto sightless depths -they bellow to him To fall, to fly, to Die! Fall and flutter amidst a shower of feathers Cramping wings crooked and futile To swirl into freedom carried by the stench of inevitability To fall, to fly, to die Little Nestling whimpers, nothing so glorious about death nothing so glorious without flight... Whimpers, shuffles forward, talons pricking oblivion Ruffles feathers, settles down Nestling wavers, branch bending Rotting down tickles his beak, claws dig deeper into branch Eyes feasting on sightless depths Endless fears... They scream to him To sit, to dream to fly... To sit, to dream of revitalized wings Stretching across the sky, an unveiling of freedom The shattering of chains every morning, with a stretch of wings The exercise of freedom to sit and dream to live to sit at the edge of that tottering branch creaking and bending under a restless and aging body peering over into the sky, where fickle wings will not go and with dreams, with dreams lift off this branch and fly, where body cannot and live