The rusty birdcage

At one point,

It hung in a tall tree,

In a dilapidated corner of

A derelict front-yard.

Hung by a child

Fascinated by aviation,

Or by an unknown hand from the heavens,

Like a cosmic Christmas ornament,

For future spacemen,

Standing proudly, dressed in titanium suits.

(While still as vulnerable as medieval knights)



Scripture has it.

On a tea-spoon of good faith,

That the birdcage was initially forgotten.

Placed on the back-burner

Like a cooling dessert,

In a vacant neon desert.

It would comfortably  stay in that tree.

And  comfortably sway in that tree.

As time





Passed by like credits

At the end of a good-movie.

Even the tree began to show it’s age.

It’s leaves, frequently leaving.

But the birdcage never wavered.

When the rain came,

The birdcage did not ask for an umbrella.

It provided shelter for  it’s often tentative occupants.

And sang along with it’s sworn enemies.

This birdcage could have done so many things.

It could have superseded all the computers.

And done all they’re math.

It could have

Gone all twelve rounds.

So many things,

But instead it swung content in a state of perpetual suspension,

Like a clock.

While not keeping the slightest bit of time.

And did something that

So many things

Don’t have the stomach

Or fortitude,

Or altitude.

To do.

While staring down the barrel of inevitable oxidation.

Provided by the temperate nature

Of rain and air.

The birdcage,

Quite simply,

Hung up there.

Hung in there.

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