Warm Sunset, Broadest Sky
A bird came by, parasite lathen on the back.
I could only spare a brief glance, I had to refrain.
The shores had washed up my fence yesterday,
and a row of flowers before the door.
How could I ask it to stop, bask in the sun,
when the bloom had washed upshore long ago?
Where do I go, and trade in sickness for soul?
All temples, and shrines now too lie in ruin,
virtue earlier coaxed with fear was kicked down by the storm,
as suffering grew, we identified the hoax.
I looked through my window, the sun still rose after the flood,
people headed out for work, or sold commodities of sorts,
the labour enduing resilience and strength—a whore wept on a park bench.
"Would you come in for a while, bluebird?
Wait, I'll bring you food, give me some time."
I'd put a chair and a banner outside hoping that people would come and talk.
I wanted to help, listen to what all they'd lost.
The townsfolk must've deemed me strange as no one ever came,
and soon a week would pass.
The bird would come by a few more times in the coming month,
I couldn’t certain if it was the one I called a few days ago,
or another one of its kind collecting food
before earth measured its furthest distance from the sun,
and the town began to snow.
“I wish you the greatest of losses, and misfortune”
I winced as I began to write the next scene in my play,
drawing from the recent string of events that fell:
the flood, the bird, its friend,
the townsfolk that remained segmented after the floods,
the whore by the bench.
I began writing whilst waiting for a blossom in life:
for some foreign-love to strike, for a day to boast a clear sky,
an Indian summer, for clearance of thought,
for my garden to nurture a flower,
for complete certainty in passion, and mind.
How cruel was it for this land to be exiled by the sun,
and by warmth, for its soil to never bear crop?
And then the town drowned in loss, and people in debt.
Now, it wept, and bled into the lake,
people abandoned their homes, and escaped,
then the floods came, and reclaimed the town.
“I, too, will leave soon, Bluebird…”
How cruel was the culture of man,
of instilling discipline into the infant,
and deficiency, and faith?
Under the shade, on a park bench,
a child was left, for the nature to entertain,
or for someone that went to access the fallen building to the left—
a devotee of god, that would hear the cries,
and take the child to better care than nature’s predatory lust.
I witnessed the event, the child was saved.