Killing by Numbers/Dying Bird


as the wind stretches
it yawns
across broken lands
it brushes over lost bodies
disparate and battered
blown, scattered into a state
of timeless disposability

who knows how much human body-waste
the wind has witnessed
as histories soul bleachers
educators of the singular
create yet another bombast, carnage path
for others to unwillingly adhere to

this wind
part of the nature scene
has seen
too many things
if only it could blow away all the pains,
cleanse this shabby place
of places

it blows through, above and over
not able, unable to change what is blown apart
a crumpled psyche
in a world dissected by mythology, dreams and ideals
tired inventions and pretensions of what could be
and some have been too willing to be
what they cannot be

Croatia is a dying bird

us, the other birds
watch...
flapping around hovering in the wind
waiting to see which way the wind will blow
all birds are mortal
waiting for the drop

short of breath
short of sky
the creature could do nothing but cry
as days passed

the beak would peck at the glass
trying to peck through the window,
wanting to escape the trap
it yearned for flight once more

others
outside
flew by
looking in

unable to break the spell of what was cast
it's wing flapping hitting out
in frustration, crazed

morals come and go
yet we will never know
why we waste our time
creating each one of them

shadows collude
and move around this place
as night cloaks the scenery
in here
as the feathered martyr rests
slightly jittering
holding onto
the last embrace

time grinds on
leaving the dead behind
to become mere memories
as life rushes ever onwards around it

the bombing has paused.......
here lies a dying woman
not just a woman
but a woman who knows the wrath of insecure masculinity

she thinks......
are we all merely
headless lost creatures?

here I lie
one leg less
and many dreams less

if only the tears
that which I churn
could fill the gap blown asunder

are we tomorrow's ghosts
laying down snares
for future lives?

dead is gone
lost is not found
end is - finish

and the wind
it blows
it moans
it stretches it's invisible limbs
across the battered land

oh surely there's hope
once we've realized, loss of hope

but still the bird is trapped
caught between non-reason and hope
dangling on the gropesome
x mark's the spot
mapped out, worn out
and the wind?
It still blows.....


marc garrett's writings