the blackbird in the rabbit hole

What I recall is the blackbird. An injured creature

calling, calling, a bleak voice in the void.

Even as its feathers fell off in clumps, as the broken flesh stained

the ground,

the mindless wings attempted a flutter,

separated, they were also calling, a wet weak shiver

along the loose dirt.

You should have never followed the voice of the blackbird. The

light in its eyes, dirty and wild, was some

sort of omen, a warning

telling you not to follow. Only fear lives in the heart.

The rest of the structure is a monster; it wants to swallow you, but

you know this now. The ribbon that was tied around your waist that day

lies here as a skeleton, trampled by the wild, without light. Material

like silk always seems to fade.

Somewhere, I guess the blackbird is still crying. Her voice weak,

the echolalia of a memory. It’s strange how I also try

so desperately to swing my arms that are caught in the updraft, as if

somehow, my own arms will

catch the light, that my own arms can lift me into the wind.

Even without feather or hollow bones, my body

could be empty enough.

I recall the sensation of falling, something like

flying in a dream, but this time only fear lives in the heart.

This does not feel like dreaming.

This is the descent into madness.