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A Bird Called Silence MAG
Ah, what a persistent thing
That flutters in on its battered wings
It hardly even makes a sound
As it settles gently on the ground
But oh, how it changes its air
One second naught, the other it’s there
I sit happily with pen in hand
When the world fazes through
to a different brand
Plunged into darkness, violently,
suddenly, gray
Head in hands, gripping, tearing, blue
Screaming out, viciously, brutally, red
Staring forward, numbing, nothing, black
It stares at me with a savage light
Dancing, and dazzling delicately behind
its black eyes
It tells me all these evil things
It brings them with its tattered wings
Evil foul, this thing it is
It poisons me with a dark abyss
It calls it truth, but with such a bitter taste
How can a truthful life be wasted
with such haste?
I use my words to push it out
I dance, I fight, and I scream and shout
I take all the pots and pans,
And I bang and I clash
With my one-person band
But still once more, like some wicked spell
It invites itself in, and with it comes Hell
The second the noise fades away
The second the night closes in on day
When I pause to take a breath
When I close my eyes for some needed rest
When I pick up a feathered quill
When I no longer can find my will
I hear nothing as it sails in
I only see it, with its impossible grin
It does not smile, but of course
You see it in its eyes, so malevolent
and morose
And it flutters up near my face
And it pecks me, it makes me a disgrace
It whispers so low into my ear
And it implants all these things, all these fears
But in a way, it never succeeds
The absent words, the quiet heeds
I have only come to fear one thing
I fear this bird, and its wicked stings
I fear this bird and all its soundless malice
I fear this bird, this bird called silence
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This poem, written in the silence of the night, is about how you may believe you are doing better until friends leave, the TV turns off, and the sun sets and you're left with nothing but your own thoughts, to realize you never were better.