Vapid Poem by T. M. Isaac

As the birds sing, outside there are certain things
I think I rather not think about for now.
As the birdsong strings loose harmony to discord,
fretting the golden, beamlike strings with green,
I try and think I rather think of something else.

As the birds sing, I sense there's something else
that slits the silence but their chirps;
an unseen unheard echo, laced with violet fragrance.
As the birdsong stings it brings with it a lasting savor,
of tastes forgotten and sounds unheard.

As the birds sing, it seems remembrance clings
to hope, fettered to the seams of endless days amassing.
As the birdsong streams through the trees,
it all seems rather somewhat of a dream,
as trees and fields of light spill over pristine thoughts.

As the birds sing, there are definitely other things,
worse things out there I rather not think about.
It's easy, it would seem, to sever dream from dream,
to think of other thoughts and other days and other sounds,
as some things end and some begin, while the birds sing.