The
hummingbird entrenched within my heart
aches for the familiarity of endless summers,
endless fields, endless skies painted with clouds
that cradle her wings gently,
in ways that the spaces in my hollow soul
never could.
Her words haunted me as I read them,
plastered on the walls in her own blood
were the laments of untapped passions
lost in her dreams,
talents unbeknownst, but, somehow,
she knew she could do wondrous things
in a dreadful world she knew
nothing about.
Perhaps that, and that alone
is why she refused to drown herself
in the blood of whitewashed passions
brooding in my heart,
my only wish being that she will
forgive me, someday, somewhere,
for she knows not of the feisty
hunters that prowl the fields she so
desperately dreams to escape to,
and I’ve no heart to tell her of them.
If only, dear caged hummingbird, I could
explain why I plucked a feather
and fashioned it into a quill,
so that I could combat in words
that which you know nothing of,
so that you never have to.