You have eyes,
And you bellow cries,
Like a bird perched atop
The winter bough.
You have no nest
For the chicks and their whines.
You simply squawk
For no reason at all.
Like the food within your form,
You have become selfish
In wanting it all
For yourself, in this solemn gloom.
Like a woman beneath a waterfall,
Or like a bird atop the bough,
You have starved another
Of their thinnest arms, once being larger boughs,
Than ever the worm you found atop the bark.
All rains down
Between yourself and the world,
Like insects to swallow up.