The Home and The Grave of The Injured Birds

A poem about the sudden popularity of gay suicides.

 

I'll paint it for you, with my words

The Home and The Grave of the Injured Birds.

They gather here, with Broken Spirits, Deformed Wings.

Those Birds Gather here. They Gather and Sing.

 

Sing in the feild where the Flowers Lay,

Sing of histories that might happen, Some Day,

Sing in the warmth of the Sun's Harsh Light,

when the Flowers Sway and Dance.

Sing with the Moon, in the Dead Of Night,

when sadness pours from the flowers, Their Accepted Hearts Lanced.

 

I'll Dance with Them there,

giving the Birds Care,

until Their Last Note.

 

I'll tell the Flowers, there

how sweet it is that they care

for a Group That Has Begun To Lose Hope.

 

"Dry your stems,

for you still have friends" I'll remind them,

Halfheartedly.

 

Because even when It's True,

and I've Still Got Friends, too,

When You Were Lost To Us, A Piece Of Me Went Missing, Too.

 

Your Song, it WAS Beautiful,

it Spoke To Our Hearts.

Your Song, It held thoughts that were Crucial,

but Now, Just Like You, We're Left In The Dark.

Reviews

[Frank F. Atanacio]

this was such a great read-- I loved it