downstairs,
in a locked room,
in the middle of the floor
sits a gilded aviary.

its two guests,
perched on extreme ends 
of the bar, chirp a song
no one understands.

then they take off,
in flight, the feathers flap
and fall off. crashing, they miss 
everything but each other.


they dance. in the flurry,
the gilding starts to rip off
exposing the rust. in the birds,
exhausted, fall to their death.


© zamantungwa

Day 1 | April, Freedom Week