The Absence of Wavelength

Sanctuary’s Fall

Your sanctuary waits,
leans, tilting,
guided by gravity
yearning fresh meat.

eyeing the ground —
weathered, neglected haven,
a comfy hovel
you once called home
nearer to hell.

proudly,
‘I came from there’,
no longer its caretaker,
you abandon.
ignorant

of a hovel
made of good wood…
made no sound,
you say, when it hit.
flattened and you contest

faultless, blameless. fool,
that was your home.
where do you fly to now,
bare your brave breast
among feathered kin?


9.3.23

Something I started when I noted the four-hole birdhouse on leaning pole, bashed by high winds, now uninhabitable.

Compared it to ideals of man versus his roots and how we claim the best parts of something but don’t unite to save that community before too late — nearer to dystopian reality. Birds don’t live on the ground, usually.

People aren’t usually hypocrites. They’re ironically ignorant without contemplation.