Songbirds Cede

This is not a place of hope:

this fool’s gold gilded cage

this derelict soundstage

from a bygone golden age.

No canopy of supportive palms

bracing for my fall;

‘Round here, it’s all for none,

and none for all.

This is not a place of joy:

No brothers in arms to watch my six,

this kennel’s home to jackals

too old to learn new tricks.

Rounding a bend

I become less than;

Songbirds cede to cawing crows

grayscale conversion follows.