Justin

You let me down so gently from my perch
my feathers didn't have time to ruffle. There are days
where I tire of singing your song like a broken record
because my voice box has forgotten how to warble
the syllables in your name every night like a hymn.

Sometimes, I grow tired of the metal bars
surrounding my body that dig their talons in so deeply
they carve your soul into my flesh, but I remain confident
that someday, I will fly again. (If I concentrate hard enough,
I can count the twelve steps towards addiction and rehab.
I can't help but wonder which one you bring.)

However, I missed the herald angel that descended upon me
sending good tidings my way while I was delicately perched
on your arm because my wings were clipped by your bluntness
and your pleas fall on tone-deaf-song-bird ears
that are too tired of aural persuasions,
so all I have left to do is wonder why I still sing.