Pigeons sit lined up like ellipses on a street lamp, like Morse code. Sparrows are whole notes on the staff strung up between telephone poles. And if they could not sing, would this be their song written out? And if they could not wing, would they learn to love the ground?
Every little bird a frustrated Pollock, every car hood a canvas. Clean and polish, people wash away the art – They just don’t understand it.
But there’s a message in the mess I’ve been trying my best to decipher. During reincarnation, something lost in the translation – now an eyesore. What the car crash stole comes back not quite whole, but full of good intention. The diamond now a coal, is the beauty trapped inside forever?
(bridge) What will I be born without the second time around? How will I express my heart? Without hands or wings or song, will it be a prison for my soul? Would it be better to go once alone, or not even at all?
Pigeons sit lined up like ellipses on a street lamp, like Morse code. Sparrows are whole notes on the staff strung up between telephone poles.
And if I cannot sing, could this be my song written out? And if I cannot wing, could I learn to love the ground? Can I learn to love the ground?
© Heather Aubrey Lloyd
