The Birds

Miles wind the mechanics of my feet,

counters and clocks to tally the movement of my toes.

I pace alongside psychiatrists and counselors on cracked cement

as their words like a foreign language

Instruct me to dance barefoot on glass.

I kick glitter,

shards of light swept up by the wind.

Beneath their glinting genius I toil with arms raised,

my feeble human hands failing

to grasp any note of understanding.

My words ring through air,

fall though sky, wrap around my strides.

Their ill harmonies weave through

glass shards underfoot to resonate,

discordant and off key.

I misstep, tallies subtracted for

each limb ungainly cut, scarred by the journey.

My eyes are blinded, cataracts resulting from

trying to read the sun.

My mind is veiled, and

I cannot hear encouragement

over ravens screeching in my ears.

They will shortly barter for my spoils.