Poem -
the last bird to sing
out of sleep I did not come
Easily.     I heard the sun.
whispering of bloody things
It turned its face I saw its grin
and vigilant I spend the hours
Taking stock of awful things yet
Terrified again to sleep IÂ dread
the last song blackbird weeps.
M ~
Â
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Comments
Grief, many forms many metaphors another powerful performance from your ink my dear marion đź’ś
I go to sleep early. And awake early too. I must envy the 'Last Bird.' 🙂
Your writing has 'evolved' I cannot put my finger on it, but being away for a bit and coming back to read your fabulous poetry I can see that your writing has evolved somehow. Still as brilliant as ever, of course xx