“The Bluebird” – Poetry

The pen drops
To the right of the blinds,
Nestling between Nietzsche and Keats
(the ink is dry)
And the edge points nowhere

Silence.

Busy pages, tracing wafts
Of factory smoke, of machines mindlessly crafting
Armies of skeletal spines as
The plant clock’s hands go
Unnoticed — as they often do here — time lives only
through
The old grand mirror.

And the light lamp! How it
Pours into the edge of the cup, which I
Raised to crinkled lips only yesterday,
(or was it the day before?) —
Once half full, now fully dry
And the dust round my shoes

Can’t be seen
From here.

Through the window peers
A lone bluebird — his wings raised in a gust —

He seems to not wish
To sing to me.

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