Her comb is no longer red.
It’s meaningless to preen.
She stands hunched as a deadpan mushroom.
Only flesh matters in her man-made coop.
.
She cannot forage in freedom.
She’s not a living thing.
There isn’t any wax to seal the pain-pores.
Bedding absorbs her vibrancy.
A dust bath, she longs for.
No cluck.
Nothing hatches.
Her thoughts transform into coral tree thorns.
Reek of feces and death dominates.
Yet her blind mates peck voraciously.
There’s neither postmortem nor FIR.
This is a recurrent licensed murder.
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When my child hastens to her pillow,
To close her eyes and dream;
She drifts away with stars to play,
Where magic paints the scene.
Mermaids with their tresses wild,
Dance beneath the sea;
And dolphins sing their vesper hymn,
Among the coral tree.
Faeries dance in filmy gowns,
In woodlands dark and deep;
With stars to trim their silver crowns,
While blossoms rest in sleep.
She dreamt of a pixie painter,
And watched as the vision grew;
A violet smiled beside him,
As he dipt his brush in dew.
He painted all to please the mind,
The shades of earth and sky;
The buds of all the roses,
And a light in the bluebird's eye.
At last the dawn is breaking,
Rosy sunrise paints the skies;
My darling is awakening,
As she rubs her sleepy eyes.
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