Ax Of Creation

I hold it. Gently.
In the palms
of both hands.
Like a captured,
thoughtful dove,
it is as delicate
and remote,
as a secret.
But then I seek:
not a greater
understanding,
not a higher truth,
but temporal fame.
Some sordid proof
of immortality;
a twist of reality.

My grip grows tight,
I squeeze: it fights.
The feathered down
explodes.
Red and white
and bloody,
the shatterred,
oblivious body,
falls,
and cracks
the ground.

I plucked
a fantail from the air.
I heard the Songbird's
music suite.
I quilled a message
from it's blood.
It was a poem.
Complete.