Rusty Bird

Rusty bird,
Coarse hinges and feathers well tarnished,
He adds some oil and
Resumes flight.

This is the life of Rusty bird.
Fly, Fly until wings become too weighted
with turbulent conversations and
one too many misdeeds, Repair the latest drawbacks, and
Continue flying.

He knows not which way to go, but he needs not know,
for underneath that oil-drenched heart of his,
he knows that forwards is the most important direction.

Sometimes, Rusty bird takes longer pitstops than usual.
Sometimes, Rusty bird doesn't fly for a very long time.
Sometimes,
              Rusty bird does not want to keep flying.

In these stagnant periods, Rusty bird's wings are heavier that he can bear,
and bare are the stems of his feathers, wearily slicing through the air,
barely able to lift his pitiful, discoloured mass.

In these moments of pause, Rusty bird contemplate his purpose.
Will there ever be a destination? Must Rusty bird live his life, constantly
scraping off the ever-growing abundance of rust on his little body? What if Rusty bird
stopped doing so? What would happen then?

And after days, sometimes weeks, - and on several occasions - years, when Rusty bird finds an undisturbed shoe box and shuts his metal eyes one last time,
he reminisces about flying.

The liberation of soaring, the empowerment that came with each beat of his wings, the beauty of flying forwards into a new unknown...

This newfound energy pulsates through his crumbling frame.

He pours oil over his corroded heart, his weighted wings, and his bare feathers,
and as it seeps through the cracks and flayed layers,
Rusty bird flies again.