My Bluejay
She lay at my feet.
Dead.
Her wings snapped and matted
with blood.
Her neck at an angle to only display
Death.
Eyes burned out by the words
of Time.
And another day goes by.
I think about her at times
when the Hatred of Man has
overcome me. And I look down
at my feet.
And she is still there.
A few feathers are now missing.
Her feet are shriveled
and her blood has leaked out.
But she exists still as a memory.
poem by Zoe Guillory
Added by Poetry Lover
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