Little Birds
There are little birds trembling
inside my chest.
They are plucking bones
to build their nest.
They’ve no idea the trouble
you cause this bewildered heart.
It is tormented by what I sense.
It is best that they tear it apart.
It is dark where they live.
I feel their wings thrash and rip
the tissue like a closed gift.
Small beaks scatter and sift
Through what parts remain
of love both cruel and caged,
just as they, within this vacant cask,
flit and flutter, then violently thrash.
-Lyndsie Stremlow
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Yes indeed.