Birds are gathering
here in these skies
like little ants
They scuttle about
leaving traces of twigs
I watch them
from one edge of the earth
and down to the next end
They whistle and chirp
minute songs
sprung out from their lungs
In a past life
I imagine we could have been
one of them
Four wings soaring
flying too high to that sun
But we weren’t
pelted with wax
we were made up of stone
Our claws carved stars
we know of no grounds
no lands or oceans
We are chiseled of air
Éloa 
Leave a comment