Is that going to be me? Fifty years from now, will my body go completely solid like the bird? Will my organs fuse, my voice silence, tongue weighted? Will the whites of my eyes bleed out, lids stuck forever open, unseeing? Maybe it’ll be me on my perch in here, stuck immobile forever, while people look in, talking to me through the bars when I can’t talk back. It’s a fear I have, though I’ve never voiced it. Who knows if this power will change? Maybe one day, I really will be a statue. For now, all I can do is keep singing, keep ruffling my proverbial feathers. Keep breathing with a chest that
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