I gave you my voice
once. You had me
caught and caged,
ready to sing for
you and any audience.
To perform until my lungs
were spent, my fragile
frame shaking, but it made you happy;
I could see.
So I persevered, even though
my head would droop and my
light chest was gripped
with tightness.
Then you were gifted a metallic me.
It astounded you and every
beat
of
your
heart
was ensnared
by the grinding inner workings
as it chirped out
a charming replica of song.
You cast me aside,
I was free to fly again.
Free
to sing when I pleased or sing
not at all.
But eventually, as all things
do, the grinding of fake me
ground to a halt.
And your heart was released
to beat on its own.
The beat was weak.
You realised that it was starting
to break apart.
The cracks had appeared when you first
pushed me aside,
yet the pain was masked by false joy.
I can fix you,
bandage you up will warm trills
filled with spring flowers and
gentle breezes, the chorus of dusk and of dawn.
I can heal you.
Will you ask?
Treeshallow Musings 