Using some worn out metaphor
to look into the deep dark dead sea
brings to mind a chirping red bird
on a windowsill
whistling painful pictures of worn out
and tired faces; wrinkled old faces
that all look like the red bird and are all tired.
They bring to its eyes tears of beauty;
it hurts to speak and listen.
The red bird sings up a well-known mountain
where old cigarette butts and cheap
empty wine bottles are littered.
It’s thirsty but the bottles are dry;
those good speakers of before stayed thirsty.
They are silent now, and the red bird is young.
But it is tired; all it sees is that the trek is long.
The mountainous path is filled with pains
and vices are littered around its pursuit.
The lonely mountain air
calls out to the searching eyes
in each town and square and market,
slowly creating creases in their features;
creeping toward being old and tired;
creeping toward the sea while falling in love—
some sort of form that has meaning.


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