Birds of Paradise

Birds of Paradise
.

.

Another day behind your iron drapes
ends with no vision of the moon, broken off like
an uncharted dirt road, knowing tomorrows journey will
again take you to nowhere

.

As you drift into the oblivion of darkness
again you see her standing, waving from the shoreline
in her hair, a red flower brilliant as
the sun you rarely see
.

Her hands as white as ivory, her fingers
delicate as wisps of Pampas Grass swaying in the breeze
majestically beckon you to follow her home
to where you yearn to be once more

.

Behind her, the island stretches off the coast like
a garden of paradise awaiting your return and
your backbone rigid like a starched rope
reflects your building intent
.

As off in the distance you feel the crescendo nearing
the bicycle careening down the hill like
an out of control rocket on its way
to the stars you one day may again visit

.

She's as soft as just plucked down yet screams like
the crazy bird, its song like mournful trills sound the pleasure
of the approaching feeling of wholeness
and the pain of the plucking all in one
.

Dreams behind bars are all that you still have of your own
until you awaken. She spun off like a woman
desirous of rushing to meet the maker of
her soul that very instant
.

From the bunk above you hear his monotonous voice
like every other morning that you must rise
and face the continuing existence of just one
more empty, sorrowful, drawn out part of a year
.

Who ever decided that jail in lieu of gas was less cruel
never spent a single minute in here, I'm sure
days pass like having the pleasure of an elephant sit on your chest
but oh, the nights are pure paradise