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The Tortured, Fettered Bird
He goes about in silence,
as from the tortured, fettered bird,
the gilded song of ignorance,
or sorrow, goes unheard.

Woe the sin of the keeper,
as the notes bounce off his ear.
He is his own retribution—
his own worst nightmare—
that he doesn’t know to fear.

The keeper’s cage is different,
different, but just as strong.
He strives to trap his freedom out,
while tombed in his dozing song.

As with an unconscious song,
of the tortured, fettered bird,
the keeper’s song is of gilded ignorance—
and he hangs on every word.

The torture of a fettered bird,
and the sinning keeper sore.
though pity is free i ask of Thee,
which one to pity more?

Watch with me now
as the dark draws nigh,
and the long shadows die
in ritual steps they move.

Each to the edge
of his cage once more.
One wide-eyed to see
    what he was meant to be,
and one to draw his shades,
and shut and lock his door.

This poem is © copyright by mark macdonald

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