Fatal dreams

At 2 a.m in the morning the thoughts became starlings; dispersing, flying & reforming again, afraid a cage & the end of all freedom lay hidden, patiently waiting.

Yet other nights they would fly above evergreen trees, winding paths & fresh clean streams.

Some nights the trees became something they could never be, & the water turned to perfect mirrors flowing towards an endless sea.

Now the starlings are starved & dying, motionless on blackened trees above a burnt & barren ground

where there is nothing so beautiful as you, or birds flying through the clearest blue sky.