Final Days Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Once he was a tiny bird.
Under a cloudless sky,
His own tree, and a ticket to an anywhere journey
Once, I held his heart in my hands
I left him on an island, where he turned to stone

My eyes couldn't see beyond the end of my nose
When he needed a platform to champion his cause

He was raised in a hothouse of fear
Always on parade, no let up, no privacy

There was always a fire on the mountain
Of his life, which seemed to revolve in circles,
Loops like rabbit snares lurked ready to pull him back

Sometimes he was a river in spate
Sometimes he seemed to be flying over the world
Like a kite, drifting, like a cloud floating

Eggs turned into rocks in his thorny nest
Slow motion moon steps, eyes pinned
In the dark tunnel, where the dragon dives

Death was stalking him like a creepy clown
Was I blinkered and blindfolded not to see it coming?
That skyscraper tumble, that bridge with the long fall

Now, I'm judge of my own short-fallings
So many needles in the haystack of memory
The unwritten book where the queen
Looks after the little happy prince, forever.