l'imposteur est parmi nous

I caged a bird this morning, amidst a ray of sunlight and the moving tides of the sea. It fluttered its wings and sputtered its beak as if it were to speak. I wondered, wondered what words it would tell me, should I let her go free. But between the refuge of the aviary and the tumbling stream - she chose to clip its wings, and stay with me. 

I watched the bird every midday, between the bars of her cage and the serenity of the seas. She spread her wings and yearned hazily as though to ask, ask for a blanket, pillow and reeds. That comfort she needs, amenities beyond worms and seeds, I gave her all she pleads. The days go by, week and week, without much to see. 

I spoke to her every afternoon, through the doors of her home and the background behind. She moved away from the furniture and approached me - slotted behind the grated windows and looked beyond. I pondered where she could see, but it hurt me to let her be; that which hid beyond the trees could take her wings, not let her speak. 

I lay her in bed every evening, Stroke her moonlit body and settle into slumber before me. She spread her arms and bequeathed her stories to seek – dreams that took me beneath the seas and above the peak. I took her out with me, that night she sung to the wind, a voice I could not reach, on the pale shores of the beach. 

I buried her today at dusk, yellow soil mixed with the white feathers of her skin, down under the tree. Her hand to her side but its eyes open to the sky. I knew, knew that she would tell me about the clouds and rainbows it would see beyond the cages of this reality. But I could not help but think, imagine the scenes and possibilities it could have been. That world, she would have not stooped to rest on some boy’s windowsill, that world the bird flew alongside the waves and tides and seas, that world where she rested far away from any comfort or complacency, had I let her free.

Thirteen days until lift-off 

I Among the flipping fingers, Messages, there was only one still yet observant eye

 II I was the creator, the viewer, that of which algorithm obtained 

III There was no telling, the authentic from The small part of reality 

IV A man and a woman, Are watching. So is the bug, the bird and the sun. Too 

V I do not know who sits, Behind the screen, Or in front of the mirror, Or just the river twirling To thereafter 

 VI The child screams in incomprehensible Screech. That to which He yearns, the mood And tantrum, traced the decks Of the inescapable cause 

 VII O’ the most noble of men, They do sing of freedom. They do So, see not the feet Shackles built upon the Ashes of our paradise

VIII I cannot tell, what is more lucid Nor musical. That burning dish, The burning dish, or the Burning dish, I ate This morning 

IX When I got lost, it flew by me That was perhaps the end There was never an end 

X They crossed the lights, Fleeing the other side of the street. The cows crossed the field, To find the greener grass. 

XI They went to the clinic In such a rush. And a fear took him, That maybe he was in too Deep. For his shadows had become Complacent. 

XII The cable flexed and turned, So must the consumer 

XIII It was a Saturday evening, It was not the brightest of days. They said it would take off, But it snowed, As the millions watched on.