“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


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
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.

One thought on ““The Bluebird” – Poetry

Add yours


Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: