mocked, said the mockingbird,
is what you feel, no?
flitting above my desk she flips
forward pages and reveals.
does it seem ironic?
asked she.
indeed it does,
said I.
cruelly so
that your month has
your color?
correct!
was the shrill.
I don't understand,
wailed I.
but she stood silently.
eyes, infinitely dark, stared.
said she,
no one does.
it's a tricky sticky subject,
this.
a sigh
as I opened the window to set her free.
but still she remains
perched on my desk
mocking me.
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