Shrike

My wings are broken
I rose to hunt, and fell into myself.

The throne I once called mine
has grown into a bed of thorns,
a patient trap that learned my name.

I searched the horizon for something to claim,
yet found only silence
and left myself behind to weep.

My final hunt still trembles
between breath and oblivion.

Oh, my poor prey,
how proud I was, striking with such precision,
never knowing I would never have you.

The shrikes already circle above us.
They do not question you,
but me...
why I still pretend these shattered wings can carry me.

Do not struggle for what was never yours.
If it were, you would still be free
still alive.

                                                      

I was the one deceived,
chasing an echo,
and no one came to stop me.

Now we drift toward the same ending
you to the beaks above,
I to the quiet hunger below.

I hunted you,
and in doing so,
undid myself.

The thorns that once felt soft as cotton
were home
until they learned to pierce.

Now they cradle my bones
as I once displayed yours.

Oh, my prey
your fate is the sky’s feast,
mine, the earth’s slow claiming.

I hunted you,
and I destroyed myself.