I am but a caged bird at night,
The feather of some old crow
And the song of an alley cat.
I sleep among streetlights and
Carve a home in the rain clouds
Of hollow roads, full of weary
Cracks and discarded rubble.
I send this message to anyone
Who seeks a purpose in nursing
Quiet paths alone, as I do myself.
So to the lonesome traveler
That reads this message, for
The outcast that weeps in
Silence without disregarding
The rain, you have my respect.
My identity may be unknown
To whomever may find this,
But the crow will search for
Those who understand, and
You will see who I am-
Because you know. You
Always seem to know.
. . .
Do you remember the
Black-iron cage we laid
And slept in, old friend?
Out on the streets before
We became outcasts and
Left to wander alone.
You headed northwest,
Towards fields of white.
I stayed close by and
Kept watch of the town
We were exiled from.
And there we laid
In our own cages
Carved by our own
Hands waiting for
The other to return.
Well, here I am.