doctor christopher

show me him in a box

with his head laid on his side and his eyes sunken

maybe then, I’ll believe you

show me him warm and lifeless on cotton wool

and yesterday’s newspaper

all sharp tongue and blood clots, rigor yet to set

if I can see him at his final rest

still and oily feathered

last breath spilling from his  mouth,

maybe then I’ll believe that he lived.

i know he flew once

until he had the air pulled from beneath him

in hope, he dived under clouds and screamed

felt air rush into his lungs

he cried, sang and made love

he swam with his enemies and lied to his friends

he fell asleep and dreamed on the wing

played the same games we did, until

too close to the sun

beset by fragility, he fell

and waited, winded, to soothe his aching breast.

what once supported now deserts him

but he still flies in the earth, his force unhindered in dust

he’ll learn over time to be again.

show me him in a box

his head to one side and his sunken eyes,

and i’ll believe you

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