If only all the blackbirds knew how they’re doves on the inside. They live under a cover of suet, afraid to look into the unknown inside them, uncertain but certain of the monster their believed to be.
If only the blackbirds knew that they were born to fly high, instead of roosting in the dark trees and alive in the cover of night; they cruelly defend what little they have, but it’s because of the little that they have that they perceive they have so much more.
If only the blackbirds knew how they were created to soar and shine with beauty, to be clothed in breathless silver luster and gleaming white silk, instead of the dirty rancid rags that hang from them, frightening the ones that look their way, offering only humiliation and sorrow as their so-called plight.
If only the blackbirds knew when they would die, and they would sleep away their days in a fit of darkness and the people would live in peace; “it never pays to stay awake when your life is a living torture” they’d tell you.
If only those blackbirds knew how close they were to the end, the bitter breaking of it all. They nearly drowned beneath the pressure of unwanted existence, or so they thought. How they were here to shine, and yet they couldn’t muster the strength to lift another broken wing when it was over.
If only the blackbirds knew how their scars would heal in time, and how they did know all too well how they had nowhere to heal, no place of safety to hide. They struck at the sham replication of kindness they were tossed; they’re not stupid you know. We can tell what’s real and what’s yours. When will this all end?
If only the blackbirds knew their fate, how they’ll suffer so much more at the hands of others when they keep up the futile fight. And yet they understand the difference between life and death, conquest and defeat. For to them, defeat is living death in itself. They must continue forever and on in this battle of animosity and blood and regrets. They know no other way; they know how they can’t trust anyone. They wish for the end of their wretchedness.
If only the blackbirds knew how they’re just fallen stars on the way to destitution; the weary ramblings of desolation road. They stumble onward away from a stricken battlefield, farther still from the spoils of faultlessness. They are abandoned, as it seems. They are exhausted, as they fall into dark waters, and surrender their worthless abhorrently regarded lives to the depths of obscurity and despair. They relinquish their hold on life to the all too common unknown.
If only the blackbirds knew how soon their wings could heal if they stopped trying to fly a broken flight. How they could be caught in their desperate freefall and nestled in a place of quiet safety; how easily they would breathe. If they knew how the world is not always as it seems; harsh, unwanting, unforgiving, traitorous, lying, scornful, humiliating, hating; for this is all they know. This is all they ever had. This all they are. And this is how they’ll die, a criminals death, an uninnocent murder of innocence, hidden away and long forgotten for the beatings they received and their fierce unrelenting retaliations, they gave what they got, now who is to blame for all this?
If only the blackbirds knew how the sun always rises after the darkest length of the night, and illuminates all in its glory. If only the blackbirds knew that the bridge over the great divide has reached them, and they’ll be taken in without pity or fear; that it’ll be ok, that they’ll be held not as captives, but as children, not as condemned but as valuable.
If only the blackbirds knew how they’re not alone, how they’re meant to live for so much more, how forgiveness was right where they fell.