MOCKINGBIRD
As it often does
moving by memory,
your body finds mine, fits
puzzled into angles and curves
in those hushed hours—
were it not for the mockingbird
screaming into the moonlit,
slate-grey sky.
I envy you,
your unbothered sleep.
No torment. No great,
stirring voice
in your mind
screaming,
screaming.
c. B. L. Bruce
First published by Visitant
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Bri Bruce Productions 