White Bird

The moon was a white disk in contrasting skies,
The rain was a gray sheet of which behind she cries.
The wind was a gale of howls that told tales of fear,
And the white bird was crying,
Crying, crying,
The white bird was crying, her wings stained with her tears. 

She was born with white feathers, and soft fragile wings,
A voice of a love bird, with her own melody to sing. 
But her feathers grew dull and riddled with pain,
And she cried away her sorrows,
Her misery, her sorrows,
She cried away her sorrows with the pouring rain.

The night carried on and the moon sank away,
The sun rose gallantly to greet the blooming day.
The storm became a calm and her wings grew no duller,
She looked up to the skies,
The skies, the skies,
She looked up to the skies and saw her emotions in color. 

The white bird spread her tender wings and flew,
She followed the wind where the warm breeze blew,
Through clouds of blue for tears and orange for smiles,
She stained her wings,
Her wings, her wings,
She stained her wings with the colors for miles.

The bird took every color from north to south,
The song rose within her and she opened her mouth.
She sang of her life and what it had lacked,
Her colors began to mix,
To mix, to mix,
Her colors began to mix into browns and into blacks. 

The white of her wings would never return,
As much as she cried and as much as she yearned,
Under the sheeting rain is where the dirty bird lies,
She regrets changing,
Changing, changing,
She regrets changing and the little bird dies. 

The End

12 comments about this poem Feed