And inside your hand entwined
with mine fluttered a baby bird
who would fly to the sun forgetting,
forgiving of fear
into the face of his own final words
if only to stop himself
from hitting the ground alone;
would go after the stars as if
they were merely scattered seeds although
he knows they all were dead long before
he ever started this journey.
His wings do not falter but beat ever faster
syncopated with our hearts as they hurtle towards
the only certainty of life; that is, the end.
So we may as well lift our feet, I think
from the gravel paths we find ourselves treading
and run to the forests and oceans and try
to jump across blazing fires and promise we will fly
holding this baby bird between our palms
the whole time.
“This Is A Poem Called Hope”
- Finn Butler