No one can love a bird - we have to think - no one can love the bird - it's the song alone we hear and our veins, like liquorice, gets sucked into the doom.
The bird sits and sings. Sings and sits. Builds a nest around. Around was a nest. Sure, it sings.
But, who sings to the bird?
In our withered nests we sit. Overgrown eggs. Cuckoo smiles. Eyeing larger than life tid bits.
And the bird sings.
The cage our eye - beholed by our bars.
