Friday, 10 October 2008


A bird is warm and free
to sing or eat a worm
and fly, fly.

I have a stone 
deep in my bowels,
smooth like an egg
but cold.
It will not dislodge
it bears me down
and slowly, slowly,
I petrify.
Fissures forge fine imprints
of  feathered history,
and I grow hard, leached dry,
a fossil on a museum shelf-
beyond reach.

When I die I wish my soul to 


Push said...

Wow i love this poem. i want my soul to fly too

po said...

Thanks so much push!