A canary flew
through the broken window
and perched on the edge of my desk.
It tilted its head, yellow feathers
catching the dim glow of the splintered dawn.
Black beak madness.
“Who are you?” it asked,
voice sharp as a fillet knife.
I shrugged.
“I’m a base poet,” I said.
“Dropped on my head by life a few times.
Eyes like a kicked dog.
A beard that refuses to grow straight.
Hands that shake when the world asks too much.”
It chirped, a Bach concerto fractured,
and whispered,
“Ah yes.
We are all just dead birds
at the bottom of a cage.
Tiny lice crawling through our eyes.
No song.
No light.”
I blinked.
The desk smelled of spilled coffee,
old beer, and blood-stained pages.
Outside, a cat howled like a lost highway.
I wondered if the canary knew my thoughts
better than I did.
“You’re a strange little fellow,” I said.
And we sat, like that,
the clock ticking toward 6:00 a.m.,
waiting for the world to stretch and moan to life again.
I slid into my wingtips.
The city smelled of wet asphalt and busted dreams.
I walked out, headed west on Ingersoll,
thinking of caged birds, dead poets,
and the strange, stubborn pulse
of madness in the magic time.
Rated for Everyone 
Categories:
PoetryBach with Feathers
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Summary:
Here's a link to my YouTube channel where I read from my recently published books https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTaWIxuXrLY
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Post / Chapter Author
Powerfully penned, Thomas. Another excellent write with lots of layers and amazing storytelling my friend. Nicely done. Appreciate you.
Damian