Finch

A poem written for the birds who don't migrate.

Sometimes I hope that

I freeze to death,

stuck in decay

as I was in life,

a clock

forever frowning,

a bird

that doesn't migrate.

My life started

the same

as everyone else's;
I set out to

end someplace

else. But alas,

such things are

very rarely achieved

by a bird

that doesn't migrate.

And my life will 

close much like

everyone else's too;

at the end,

old and tired,

a million regrets,

but none that

really matter.

A futile life.

Lost someplace,

found another.

This winter will

freeze me

with the same

chill that is smothers

on a bird

that doesn't migrate.

And when it does,

I will simply

fade, evaporate,

uninteresting,

unfinished.

A futile life.

And it will happen

with the joy

of a world

despite it all;

with the pain

of a time

disintegrating;

with the frustration

of a man

forever afflicted;

and with the ease

of a bird

that doesn't migrate.

Author's Note

Feel free to tear this one apart, I'm really not the biggest fan of it, but I'll go mad if I rewrite it all over again.