the new born still talk to the dead

the dead go as the new are born

entering and exiting

a room full of broken birds

called life

we are born dying

the young man said it

life brimming in

his eyes

his beard full

untouched by gray

his life still full

of possible un dulled by

broken birds flapping ineptly

some refuse to fly

others are all beak

some withotut feathers

horror stories

amongst the beautifully plumed

the aerially erudite

who paint them selves upon sky

like sun light

high above the

smell of

bird shit

yet bound by the same rules

all will perish

none are forever

the aviary is all there is

there is no more

and sorry

nothing less

than feathers

blood

and squawks form fledglings

trying to influence pecking orders

that melt and mean less

than nothing as dead

go and the new are born.

in this room full of broken birds

we live

in the shadow of

our own limitations

our isms

our doubts

our mean fears

our desperate dreams

all flapping wildly in

a room full of broken birds

where ideology

is born and dies

to be reinvented on the

beaks of

new birds

flying high

on old ideas

they just hatched

in a room full of broken birds.