Catching Wren

He looked from his wrists, so much they’ve bled,

he looked up to the brown and black speckled Wren.

It had eyes unlike what he’d ever seen,

but they still commanded for him to bleed.

The bird spoke to him through its glowing eyes,

telling him to fight, to kill, not to die.

The bird flapped its wings to try to fly away,

but he grasped it, saying, “Please, stay.”

The Wren could not go, so it made the best of time,

he conjured a plan for this man’s goodbye.

It said, “Go to your woman, for you are her man,

but this time, comfort her with a gun in your hand.”

The man agreed, and let the Wren go,

and did what was told to make up the show.

The Wren flew away, full with regret,

for there was no bird, the man made up the Wren.

Author's Note

I plan for this to become a book (at least the general idea of what I want to accomplish can be summarized in this poem), so if anyone would be interested in giving me chapter ideas for this or possibly co-write this with me (via email we would send chapters back and forth for revisions and such), please say so.