The Birds Are The Pawns

The Birds Are the Pawns

Ever since the rape of Leda
The birds have been bartered pawns
the contrivance between two alienated worlds
Biblical jettisons leveraged by good and evil
not permitted into God’s highest paradise
they became fallen angels under Lucifer’s dominion
each day he straps one of his lost, rejected souls
upon an avian engine trying to rid the underworld
of so much twisted angst

Upon releasing  “speckled birds” skyward to run the gates of heaven
sinewy wings flap in vain against the Icarus curse
battering their tiny bird brains inside the argon clouds
forcing them downward again and again
with their burdened loads thrust into the pillory of gravity
the fowl cloister on  sympathetic trees
singing out a compulsory penance

As dusk approaches
wings flutter in obedience
they are once again sequestered with the other denizens of Hades
the devil’s leash tight upon them
the lost souls once again
grieve when released from feathered frame
and drain back into the vile swamp of Hell
as night brings about the moaning of the tormented –
an infestation of Dante’s 7th Circle

But if you listen closely
once in a while a whippoorwill will escape
to sing out an exiled sojourn through the tongue of the invisible night
and when his syrinx grows silent
the renewal takes place
the exchange of lesser light for greater light
the cycle continues its loaded game
birds once again loosed upon the open firmament
traveling with a loaded indulgence

yet even with the armament of the God who designed them
they will never reach the plateau they desire

These limbo winged, abyss dwellers pour out their hearts in vain
foretelling the New Age,  The Trojan War, the Messiah’s birth
singing of destiny and  tales so beautiful
humans long to hear them again and again
by capturing bird -bards and demanding their warbled voices
from behind  little metal bars with graveled bottoms
from caged isolation, a species of the apterously insane emerge
the sweet song of lunacy is still music to the Human ear

While one can domesticate the cat and dog
leave birds to the apocryphal lives of their destiny
and enjoy them from behind a face of pity
for theirs is a perpetual struggle
feathered harbingers who try and warn us of destiny
harbingers who intercede between a dimensional gap
“… mastered by the brute blood in the air”
and we listen, we see them lift their wing to invisible strings
but for all the treasured singing, and beauty of flight
we ignore their truths
we only see them as enlightened defyers of gravity
as ambient beacons penned by poets through a Metaphysical vane
yet the birds have always known the plan
since the Mesozoic Era rewarded them with wings
they measure the days by souls undelivered
Hell is bursting at its gestational seams
it won’t be long now they testify with lyrical warrant
it won’t be long…

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