The Edge

I am only a small, gentle bird,
in a crowded herd of rascals,
my speeches are unheard,
and my hands are weak after a fortnight in the shackles.

I look at the cross which is laying high on the dark and filthy wall,
my legs soften as the tears flood my face,
I fall to the ground in prayer while they drag me around the main hall,
my fear is like a bottomless well, as empty as space.

I cry out for help in extreme hope,
my dreams are magical but the reality is dreadful,
only two options I have, a knife or a rope,
on the verge of life and death I begin to tremble.

The fool came and saw me dead,
it was then that he knew that it wasn't the end.