The Woodpeckers
It begins with silence in the night,
Not a sound to be heard in the dark.
And then a speck of light.
Thousands of wings lift up in the air,
Hungry for life that is already bare,
And they take to the skies
With beady hawks eyes
That cannot see anything but
Bark. More bark,
The swaying of trees.
Rip!
Say the birds,
with beaks made of cotton,
Small beady eyes,
One can get lost in.
Rip!
Call the chicks,
With featherless wings
Thirst for the end
Of all living things.
And on the ground,
Feathers,
Both old and new,
The unseen cost
Of a featherless hue
To tear the surface,
Is to tear the whole,
A suffering so quiet,
A game with one role.
Feathers and bark,
It’s all the same thing,
Cover the surface to hide whats within,
Heaven’s mistake
Is not evil and sin,
But sickness that thrives
In the mind,
In the skin.
And off goes the bark
From each branch from each tree,
As they pluck stick by stick,
Pulling feaf by leaf,
Leaving the perfection of
Smooth white glistening wood,
The perfect
Smooth white glistening dew filled wood.
And a skeleton outlines the sky,
Cold, still, waiting to die.
And they chant and they chant that
The end is near,
You wonder, what is this?
The answer is fear.