A Little Birdie

Take a drive along a lonely road, A dull highway with only the husks Of cars and rotting flesh inside. If you can find a certain groove In the road, a particular line, then You will be able to drive perfectly Straight without ever even grazing The wreckage and the death. This Is the only possible way of outrunning The forces of the world, of astronomy, Of catching the setting sun. No one ever said this was the right Way. No god said this was the Direction for you. You discovered it All on your own—with a little help From the birdie in your head that Bloodily bursts its wings out of your Ears and flaps and chirps and flaps And chirps and flaps and chirps. All your own, your mind, and a little Birdie. No birdie ever said it was The right way. She only said to go That way. No god said this was the Direction for you. You discovered it. All on your own, and a little birdie. You will never catch the sun. Your Eyes will burn in their sockets as You try. Who am I to convince you of This? For I am not your little birdie. No, but I know. Your car will clip the Jutting wheel of a burned-out truck. Your car will flip seven times and You will be ejected into the air, but You will not land in the bed of flowers In the woods. You will be impaled on The shredded metal of a van, your Last breathing moments spent staring At the charred, skeletal remains of a Once beautiful mother and four Young girls. Shed no tears for their Souls, hypocrite, for they have long Forgotten you.