Revasserie

The sound of wings echo in my ears,
little birds sing far and away in the branches of
trees I could only dream of,
they itch at my skin.

You said, "No one gets out,"
and I believe it every once in awhile,
watching men cling to cheap bottles
and cry for courage in the corners of their aging eyes
as I stare blankly at them, saying, "No."

Birds don't sing in the incandescents and the neons --
Mother told me that the night is the most alive,
but I still feel nothing.

The night sky's dead,
smothered in smoke
and the glow of the burning embers.