The bird’s nest: A poem 

Pick at the straw 

Let the hunger thaw 

Shut the door 

Hear the insides roar 

What ails the messiah 

Is his own defiance 

The question is in the doubt 

Not in predicaments without 

Has he his fledglings fed? 

When his head is all too red 

For when he is sore and forlorn 

his heart is rendered a stone 

He is told to test his wings 

As the circular wind surges and swings 

Yet when it is time to fly 

He only wants to die…