I used to wake each morning to the singing blue bird inside of my heart, she flew free over the meadows and pastures, chirping her praises for the glory of life.

But as a predator does, you stalked that little bird.

You pounced into the air, sticking your deadly nails into that sweet little bird’s flesh.

After mortally wounding my little blue bird, you played with her dying body, taking her last fearful breath with the pressure of your strong jaws.

And, like most predators, you ate her head and left her body to rot in the rising sun.

You left filled and satisfied with your accomplishment of murdering an innocent bird. And the sad thing is no one may ever charge you for your crime.

Now, I wake longing for that beautiful morning song only to hear silence.

The glory of life gone.

The magic of existence gone.

The will to live, slipping away from me, more and more, each day.

One thought on “The Death of a Blue Bird

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