Blood and Feathers

by Chris Vaillancourt


Small birds crashed into the glass.
Splattered blood and feathers.
In dying they won’t be born again.
Soulless beings, energy drones.

Preference will be given
to those creatures
covered in fur,
Dressed in people clothes
and growling in
benign entitlement.

Webs of spiders
wait
patiently
for the death of
fellow insects.
Crawling,
crawling, crawling on the walls.
Brushed hair forsaking
natural oils.
Perfumed and bejewelled,
frozen and warm.

Small birds crashed into the glass.
Splattered blood and feathers.
In dying they won’t be born again.

Copyright © 2010 by Chris Vaillancourt

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