I once had a bird.
It wasn’t always mine, this bird.
The bird had been wild and free
Then the bird found me.
Winter had been creeping in
And I guess he supposed to leave,
But the wind blew just the wrong way
And that is how he came to me.
His wing broke so that he was lame;
I found him fluttering and crying.
He came home with me that night
And I managed to keep him from dying.
The wing never healed the right way
And he could not fly, but he hopped.
Pure joy lit my life like the sun
And I thought nothing could make it stop.
But a bird with a broken wing
Is a bird on its way towards death.
Winter started to end and the other birds came back
And my songbird cried out to them.
It warbled all spring from my windowsill,
But the song got weaker, feathers fell away.
I tried to save it, but I didn’t know how.
I just watched my little bird slip further and further away.
I remember cradling him in my hands,
And kissing the crown of his head:
But nothing could stop the sweep of time
And by spring’s end, he was dead.
There is an inevitable, I accept that.
But there is also the preventable
And had I known more, he could be alive
He could have flown, if only I had been able.
But even with the cure somewhere
There might be no cure to be found
Because it may have been in the sky
And we’re forever caught on the ground
by our broken wings.
A/N: Cliche as hell title, but shhh. This is meant as comfort when there could be a real answer, but it is forever out of our reach despite that.