the birdmaiden

"Those gray feathers covering you from head to toe,

Those gray feathers, none of which you could call your own,
They have piled up high around your diminished silhouette,
Settling into the brittle gaps, littering each tiny in-between
Where skin and bone quietly rest, devoured of living flesh

Today, the birds still call to you, their songs afloat on the timid wind
Their scintillating notes wafting past that nearby balcony
And floating slowly into the cooling shade
Where you stand yet again, smiling endlessly
Your outstretched hands waiting to receive of the world,
A pair of small, quivering palms
Upturned against overflowing sky,
Palms facing ever bravely into sun,
Forgiving all which its boundless light cannot

In this tale where the ending lingers just out of sight,
You are the birdmaiden,
The one whose fragile heart continues to beat
With the ceaseless rhythm of a thousand fluttering wings
It is you alone who will become the one they speak of: