Why Birds Don’t Sing Like Us

“Pain is something to carry, like a radio.” – Jim Morrison

The siren's song—becomes a blues
When I reach to it—for something:
Consolation, vindication—the absolving of my pain,
For what it brings to light—cannot hold the light,
It becomes the light—saying “you must let me go.”

The oh-so-private thing—the result of merciless dredging
Stolen—by the gold of the sun
To shine back with all of it—except what I am

That stays behind—like so much slag
To be mined for—more of what may,
In another kiss from the sky—be devoured in light.
The more that’s mined—the more unstable it becomes,
The pain grows in proportion to the light
That which refuses to be destroyed—can only grow large
Until it crowds out all—but itself
A facsimile of something real,
The echo—in an inflamed place
Of a truth too wise to ponder itself,
That voice—we cling like bees to,
Harmonizing to it—with our wings,
Surviving on the barest vapor of its hope.