White Bird

Dead Bird, White bird.
Different from the first.

You are smaller, more compact.
You must have felt tight cramped like so.

Not so elequent, lacking polish. No eyes are caught by you.
Merely content glances,
'Ha, see you this?'

Less existant than the last. Once, were you real?
If it weren't for the knowledge in me,
I would say no.

Wires caging. Grey ground hanging.
Never do you claim a prey.
Simply wind, that will wind away.

I see you there, Dead bird. But now, you are White.

White Bird.