A pain— a bird; a robin,
A flower in a river— a suffering;
A bird, a robin, perches the soul
Of its feather once that's whole.

The ache, the unsung song—
The feathers— a movement
That cannot prolonged—
The feet, an injury— its bruises,
it's sore— its pain; is the sweetest con.

A pain— a robin, a broken poet
A robin— a bleeding to articulate—
To write is a dance of a ballerina;
its bruises, it's sore— a poem's anaphora.

© G. E.G. Martinez
4/24/24