cassandra's canary (for the girls who can see the storm coming)

 i

would sometimes like to think

i am going mad

for i sing

for everyone seeks for answers

and yet

my song goes unheard

and i am shrunken 

little bird

smaller

until nothing at all

yet i sing

and i am either dead or dying 

in myself

from the fumes, sickly sweet, 

of Delphi

or the soft silence of tunnels 

that house things i don’t need

and will never see

save for the glimmers 

in their hands

offerings

for something larger

that they sing of

in a small box

or a temple

i am equally dead

used for the lungs

that they destroy

with wanton apathy

but i sing with

another choking breath

for the crimes of war

the hands around my neck

and the thickening air

the men’s voices

screaming 

harsh on my ears

all noise and no words

that i am useless for my song

that may yet save them

from love of gold

bodily greed

the breath branching in my chest widens

head sways

feet stumble 

as i struggle

shaking

to move.

to sing

for them.