The Song of the Mockingbird

You’ve let it out the window,
The bird who listened close,
The bird who let feelings grow,
The bird who had wings clipped short.

He’s fluttering now,
His wings are a tattered mess,
He’s spiralling down again,
He can’t fly alone.

The window’s closed.
The bird upon the windowsill,
Staring at your lively stills,
That this birds not a part of.

In the picture frame,
The bird’s reflections cast,
Almost as if in the past,
But it’s just a picture.

The bird won’t make it alone;
He’s seen what you have come and shown.
He knows that he’s now alone,
Your solitude is now condoned.