We were mates, we were broken

I saw a bird fly. 

Perched on a pyre with a broken wing. 

With a teary eye line and a snorty beak

Later

 Glade effortlessly far below

Pain-drained

To peck at my yellow-glazed window panes.

I on the inside strumming a broken guitar

Humming to a lost tune

To an old dusty furniture

That got carried away to

Heat the heath

"Tis outlived its usefulness," 

My Mother retorted.

I couldn't get the chords

I reclined to a corner

  Trying to strike an earth-record music hit

The music made by rustling wind

And dead leaves

At which boughs dance

In a baritone tone

 My voice

 I had broken mine

A deep note.

It made me sad

When it flapped

My hands gripped

We would have roast meat

A dove's blood dripping

The room was warm now.

I groaned on the inside.

That a bird with a broken wing could fly

And make melody too

Was beautiful.

It pained

We shortly were mates

I painted it

It lend me a wing

I touched its feathers.

I was its god. 

 It was free now. 

#TimsSoliloquay