Birdsong



Muted birds cry lonely into the night
their voices dampened and stolen.
They sing for no one, only to hear their
own songs echoed back at them, distant
as if in a memory, a memory of what wasn't.
Remembering what could have been, should have been
might have been - but wasn't and will never be.
The warmth of darkness pressing them, warming them,
isolating, they sing into their empty cages alone.