由西湖 By the West Lake


The bird is down – black, bruised and beaten.
The bookmark stares empty at its hollow pages.
Something was meant to be in there.
Perhaps scribbles of words,
passages claiming a live pulse.
Perhaps a title blotted in emotion.

The dust jacket and the still feathers.

The bookmark is lonely.
The bird is down.

Dead!

Someone failed a heart.

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