17 November 2016


I had a dream that a thousand books were crashing down on me
yellowed, dusty hard covers that had aged and aged like wine
pages torn from their spine, come to the end of their line.
I braced myself for the overwhelming wealth of words
fluttering fervently with impending proximity
but as they hit my head,
they turned into birds.

they brushed past my cheeks with swift and silky lightness
(some blue, some yellow, some red)
but their talons did not scratch me
and the multitude of beating wings
engulfed me in a whirlwind of breezes
from all directions, the air was thick
with the vibrant spectrum of feathery colors.

every bird (that was once a book) was different,
shimmering with every splash of ink the book once contained
and contained no more. Each was singing
the melody of a story that had at last escaped words
the masculine became males, the feminine, females
and not a single melody felt wrong or out of place
amidst the wild warble of primeval music.

the sound itself I could not understand
but the sheer concentration of urgent energy
caught me up within it and had
me shivering with excitement, excitement
for I knew not what, but it did not matter,
for now I was one of them, dancing, singing, (flying?)
who could say, playing my part
in a four-part symphony larger than life.

And every word was set free
From the tyranny of words
What every word had wished to be
Before it became a bird.

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