Why does the song bird sing? Her precious melody wrecks the silence of another drab awakening. I turn away and bury my ears deep under my pillow, so far that when I blink my eyes the contrast is the same as when they are closed. I bar her through my muffling. But the song bird still sings.
Why does the song bird sing? Her life must have damage, there must be something that frays her elegant and pompous feathers shouldn’t there? Try as I to block out the tones and giddy chirping showering all around, I consume myself to yesterday’s ache and of tomorrow’s sure agony. But the song bird still sings.
Why does the song bird sing? I rise from my comforted floral printed cocoon, stains from streams of damp intermittent breakdowns are now shone from the melancholy glow which now lurks along my window panes and creeps in through the drapes. I make my way to the oversized lounge chair, my blanket and heavy mind in hand. But the song bird still sings.
Why does the song bird sing? Does’t she know the terror awaiting her, as a fragile precious creature with careless acts and an unworried heart. Ready and unprotected and to be left without a single gesture or notion of her self mortality. I frown for her, the harbinger of the renewed and boisterous rises, she is unaware of the awaiting dreads. But the song bird still sings.
Why does the song bird sing? Traipsing from room to room with trace-like gait, in the kitchen for some concentrated juice and the lue where I face unfiltered reflections marked by an hour glass of struggles, I mat down the edges of gauze around my wrist as I stare into the medicine cabinet where tiny voids are now sprinkled where once bottles crowded. Through my haze I hear it, more faintly but it’s there, everyday. Maybe she plays it for me? Maybe she doesn’t? But the song bird still sings.
Why does the song bird sing? Does she have reasons, what would those reasons even be? Is there motive to be had in her calming melody? I think I’d like to know, maybe I’ll pull the drapes and crack the window just a little. Maybe I’ll venture out into the courtyard someday and take in her tune while the smell of the rose geraniums sweet scent reminds me of a more innocent time, an easier time. Maybe, I don’t know. But the song bird still sings.