A poem

Photo by Xavier von Erlach on Unsplash

The blue of the evening
and the sound
of the summer wind
both descend.
A budgie
freed from his cage
sings at dusk.
Those things
have been
made “things”,
turned to stone
by “us”,
made inanimate
by dust.
He tries to sing them
back to life,
mourning the loss
of his talked-about
friends.
It’s always been
for “them”…

Tanner R. Layton (he/him)

Tanner R. Layton (he/him)

“Never is he more active than we he does nothing, never is he less alone than when he is by himself” — Cato