Little Black Bird

Little black bird perched on a tree,

Little black bird has glass eyes, mirror type,

Little black bird has wings to fly

but,

Little black bird has more fear than flight,

 

Little black bird perched on a tree,

 

Tree been ‘round for ages more to come,

bark burned by encryptions from the sun,

cracked by life’s vices as it stands to be used,

a vessel of art for those with a willing heart.

Tree’s purpose

is to little black bird.

A blank canvas at her service.

 

Incantations little black bird sings.

Pours out all her heart's contents bring.

Scribbled in ink,

she makes them,

rhymes them,

writes them

on Tree.

They become her poetry.

 

Day in, day out she thinks.

Far from mind, closer to heart's core.

Not often does she fly, but when she writes she soars.

Her gaze breaks

from Tree and her words.

Her reflectors show something that hurts.

Her reflection.

 

Black feathers don’t look good on birds.

She’d rather match with colors

of seasons.

Mistaken for a crow,

she’d rather her song and words glow.

Till they block out what her eyes show.

Her reflection.

 

An image she hates.

Though her poetry is getting better day by day.

Blindly little black bird can now write.

In her sleep with just her ears

and sounds,

the writings grow to be more profound.

 

The pictures and smells that suffuse each

one of her life’s breaths,

give her visions of what to write next.

The evening breezes

that ripple

through her forest’s

majestic trees,

the smell of morning dew,

the sound of crinkling leaves,

are all pieces

of her poetry.

 

Between each line is a lesson.

Each rhyme births a principle.

All blessings from heaven.

They make her fear less and

learn more.

 

Blindly little black bird used to write.

Now, she has fallen so much in love with her words,

she has to open her eyes.

She wants to see them.

She wants to see what

true beauty looks like.

 

Her eyes are open.

Wide eyed she stares amazed.

The hymns, words on Tree have taught her

bravery and pain,

wisdom and freedom,

liberty and shame.

 

Up until this point though,

she has never known,

never seen,

never been shown,

True Love.

 

As she glares at Tree

in this very moment,

she finally sees her own beauty.

Her words are there, but

they are not the subject of her glare.

 

An image she once hated,

is now her greatest lesson.

One that will never fade.

The love for herself

she can now never replace, never trade.

 

The words formed from her heart’s core

Led her to love.

Taught her to love.

Carried her, until the day

Little black bird could say,

poetry taught her how to love herself.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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