The Wings and the Hungry.

Light rays freeze and break my windows.

Night screams breezes into my curtains.

Raindrops die crashing into my arms.

Clouds wail thunders for them.

Rainbows decorate the Earth’s coffin.

Leaves fall into abyss and the trees mourn,

rustling in the night, sheltering their dry souls.

Birds sing about their fragile hearts.

They shriek when they see me.

They don’t know how good I can be.

They drink the drops of poison in the weeds

instead of the water in my glass. 

They eat the decaying meat in the seemingly empty trunk

and not the bread I make for them.

They can’t see what I have been doing for them.

Tomorrow is another day.

They will come.

I love them all.

 

 

 

Besides, the traps and knives are getting rusty.

The Rain.

It rained in the night. It was raining butterflies. Every sound was drowned out with a billion wings flapping  and falling onto the Earth. Softly crying as if they were newborn babies. They fell with spongy thuds onto the flower beds and the pretty green grassblades. Butterflies, they were singing a sad song and wailing. Blue-winged and bringing death on their light shoulders, it kept raining butterflies endlessly. The next morning, everyone had wings to choose from. But they couldn’t fly. Not unless they chose to shed themselves to be the humble and the beautiful. Mere flightless humans. The butterflies kept lamenting and regretting their apparently worthless sacrifice. They kept singing. Haunting and gathering souls.