It Curls Upwards

It curls upwards;

Then sags downwards.

 

Flesh lies limp in my hand

Trace its gaze to see no light,

no clouds nor hazy strand – and

Fell right into the nightly blight.

 

Beak stuffed full of pale white grains;

Flightly appendages stiffed and strained

Pained, cradled and craned –

Tell, was it I who had maimed?

 

Shattered is the feathered cage

that held the soul Icarian;

Whirling, winding, winged rage:

Mangled dove of carrion.