The canary flutters north,

East, south, west.

Wind carries the flapping,

Wings frantic and exhausted.

Go galavant off the ground—

Off the land, to other birds,

Whose a feather shade lighter.

I wonder if they see it,

The tiniest difference,

The disgust and the fear.

Change it. 

Bleak feathers peel off,

Bloody and dyed.

Perhaps to be placed,

On another, poor soul.

Fly a bit more,

One day, to rest its wings,

“Maybe,” cried the tired canary.

All colorful birds,

All needlessly staring at feathers.

And a mouth with myriad subtleties,

The canary, confused, quietly looks on.

Onto the stares of unfamiliar optics,

Ignorant, they look away from the canary’s beak,

Into the reflection in another’s eyes.

See their tongues flap with reverence,

Eyes attached to the distorted, hazy image

Of the canary in the mirrors of another.

The canary, jaws wide,

Falls deep, deep,

Even deeper,

Into the shrill void.

Lie for me.