The Bird on the Edge of a Word
A Short Poem
A Bird on the Edge of a Word
There once was a linguistic bird
Living on the edge of a word
Resting on the cap of a d
Enjoying life beside the Sea
Every night during twilight
Wind would swill to his delight
The waves swashed high up the wall
Courting the sign, bird and all
The word’s baseline would fall asway
Blowing our friend up and away
Toying with the evening weather
The bird would flirt with a feather
He paid no mind for his own care
He’d fly about as ‘twere a dare
And when the dance came to a slow
The bird would stage a solo show
Hopping up on the i’s tittle
He’d practice with a fancy jiggle
If he failed within his learning
The blame would fall to the kerning
And when he retired, he would flee
Off to sleep in the bowl of a g
Night would peacefully wash away
The dissipation of the day
In the morn he would start anew
Tracking smartly his great to do
He began his sentence upon the P
Noon saw him on the cross stroke of the t
Daylight exposed the art of his fiddle
His monotony lost all of its riddle
For on the wall there was a bird
Living on the edge of a word
She homed in the eye of the e
And there she yearned for company
When our guy reached the stem of the L
The sweet young girl’s heart began to swell
Pausing to view the bird in the letter
He passed her by, thinking it better
Off in the distance, upon a thistle
He admired the sign, Pig and Whistle
He let out a tune, like a reed pipe
Expressing gratitude for his type
About the Creator
Chelas Montanye
I’m an advocate for education and equal health care. I love satire. I love to express myself through art and writing. Social issues fascinate and astound me. Co-founder of Art of Recycle.
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Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis4 days ago in Humans
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