The Razor Bird

The Razor Bird

My anger lifts me up, my rage gives me wings,
and my hate makes me powerful, vengeful and
wise.

Being the creature that I am now, I can’t imagine
the thing that I was.

Cause rage is now my craze, I have become an air
creature, my thoughts fly, my words cut.

I am the razor bird.

My fingers tap, my feet stomp, my eyes flash, my
hair flows, I am a whispered word, a shard, a bird.

I cut the world into two juxtaposing nodes, I’m not a
teacher, I’m the lotus eater, I stab, I cut, I wound and
feed.

I never ever bleed.

My hand writes, my words all spite, I’m not a healer,
I’m a meat eater, I lie, I cheat, I hurt everyone one I meet.

I’m the barbwire beak that strips the corpse’s meat, a bird
that has to eat.

I’m the drug taker, and the mythmaker.

So when the veins don’t pulse and when the heart beat lines,
my lungs breath will inhale your death. I’ll smoke and
I’ll joke.

And with my razor feet I’ll seize the sorry grief, a bird
whose wings cut deep.

I’m the whispered word.

A very nasty, spiteful curse that rages in an avian verse, too
terse to shake, too sly to die, I’ll hit you in your blindest side.

Shadow cloaked, I’m whispered in serrated jokes, I still adorn
sharp-feathered hopes, and the final thing your eye’s might scope!

Totally evil, theatrically absurd! I’m a deadly sharp Razor Bird.