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The Death of a Songbird
If hope is the thing with feathers
Then my heart is a desolate cage
Devoid
Of everything
But for a pile of deceased birds
Left unfed....
left for dead.
Nothing perches on the branches of my soul
Besides the ravens,
Plucking pretty pigeons clean.
Even if love could save me
It seems love is allergic to the
Downy deceased resting between my ribs.
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"Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." -Dr. Suess