Where Birds Go To Die

It’s last week and you haven’t been killed yet. Your feathers aren’t littering the streets and your body hasn’t been flattened like a pancake. There’s no meat hanging out of your sad carcass. I can still stomach the thought of bolognaise. You’re flying up high in the sky.

It’s 2012 and you’ve never even been here. You spend your days eating crumbs and seeds from the better half and having baths in tree-filled backyards. When it rains you find shelter in the eaves of an old farmhouse with all of your friends.

It’s not today and I didn’t see you. It didn’t take me six hours to muster up the motivation and energy to buy milk. You weren’t there, in the middle of the road like a splayed out misery for all to see.

If it were 2014 there would have been no time to save you. I would have walked away sadly because there would have been nothing I could do. Had you been intact, I would have wanted to bury you but it’s still 2013, 2008 or 2002 and I never even saw you.

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3 thoughts on “Where Birds Go To Die

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