Poem

The Prison of the Birds.

Touch me not!

I have yet to ascend, but I have pretended-

To live in this world.

Will I terrify you with what I heard?

They say at death we become like birds.

Flying, angelic, ethereal beings-

Locked in a heaven we have could have not foreseen;

So Large!  Crowded by the sharp and obtuse,

                        Claws-the wings of all were all too large;

Even he who died by the noose.

So the birds they became;

And fell from the the sky-

For their wings were small

But their souls still high.

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