by Ella Truesdale
In the bitter city sky-tang
I taste the fresh scent of freedom
My prospects stretch before me
Instead I roost in my room.
I hang upside down from my bed
Oilslick hair in my eyes
Languid blood rushes to ear-tips
Lashes crust from tears I can't cry.
City, you are young and old
You have housed the worst of thieves
Your smog has wrapped my brain
Your bright lights do lure and deceive
Like smiles I zip across my lips.
My mother fusses and licks me clean
Her voice echoes round the room
I cannot hear a thing.
Echolocation, I damn you.
Why does the world speak
When I won't listen?
I think the colony is asleep.
So I pray for the sun to die.
Once its glaring pupil shuts
No one may see me
So they may be silent, but
I must, must learn to scream.
My wing-bones creak with rust
My heart putters and squeaks
My mind longs to stretch back in the dust.
The sky is laden with foul smoke
The moon provides no light
The buildings' glow is false fire
But there will be no better night.
Into the neon-cloud night I fly
From heavy earth I claw free
Velvet-winged upon the warm winds
No soothing sleep may have me.