On my window ledge, a small bird sits,
feathers and fluff -
watching.

Through the glass, small eyes strain to focus,
beads of glitter -
watching.

Behind the glass, stands this full grown woman,
a nervous wreck -
shivering.

Those bottomless eyes, iron hollows,
chill my soul -
watching.

There you are, you little bird,
so small and so benevolent,
and yet your eyes, which focus on me,
I swear are more malevolent.

Accusing eyes, reminding me,
of the woman I used to be,
Accusing eyes, blaming me,
for the wreck that NOW is me.

Mirror, Mirror on the wall,
what do you see?
A frightened woman, too afraid to
let a bird just be

a bird and nothing more,
Even YOU become my enemy,
a bird and nothing more?
but that's not what I see.

On my window ledge,
a small bird sits -
watching.

On my window ledge,
a small bird sits -
watching.

Behind the window, stands this full grown woman,
heart thumping,
crying.

Once, when a bird would flutter through her garden, land on her ledge and sing from its perch, she counted herself lucky. The neighbours whisper from over the wall: "He took that magic from her too, you know".
Forlorn, she stares at the bird, unmoving on its ledge, and nods her agreement.
"He took that magic from me too, you know."

On my window ledge,
a small bird sits,
no longer watching.

On that window ledge,
that small bird sits,
and sings.

No mirror, no sign -
this bird is not my nightmare,
Just a bird, and nothing more,
not another cross to bear.

On my window ledge,
the small bird moves,
turning.

He's flying now, no longer caged
by my fearful gaze,
so crippling.

Fly, MY liberated birdsong,
caged for so long in my rusting tin heart...

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