Poetry

Don't disturb the dead bird
Its' dry cry goes unheard
Poked at by sticks broken off a nearby rotted tree
Near its body underneath the marquee
With young knuckles wrapped around its imagined hilt
Its body tossed like a rag doll embossed
With cheap black tattered imitation leather
The slick tick of time on rain pattered feathers
A charred cheap treasure
With cracked wings amongst other small things
Pulled joints, and ligaments, tied with bodily strings
It will never be buried, only spat at
Small children squeek "look at that!"
And run off giggling with their swords
Pretending to be ladies and lords

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