Empty Nest

This little bird,
Has found the best lining,
For his nest.

He has carefully woven,
Every twig, every strand,
Making it comfortable and warm.

Last year he lined it,
With a few bramble vines,
He still remembers the thorns.

He has learned his lesson,
He is ready, his nest is ready,
But where is she?

Others have told him,
That his lining is bad,
His construction poor.

But he remembers,
Each one of the nests,
He has built before.

Experience has taught him,
He knows this nest is good,
Ready for a mate and children.

But each lonely night,
As the last birdcalls fade,
He finds himself alone.

He can hear them outside,
Telling him he is wrong,
How things should be done.

In those quiet hours,
Too heartbroken to whistle,
He wonders if they are right.

But he also wonders,
How come they are right,
Yet he is wrong?

They have not,
Taken the same care,
In building as him.

Their nests are drafty,
Their designs are ugly,
His, he knows, is beautiful.

Why can’t they see this?
How can they be so blind?
How can they be so ignorant?

As spring turns into summer,
The little bird sings less and less,
He has no heart for song.

As the days pass,
He grows weaker and weaker,
Until he is heard no more.

Will the others,
Miss his sweet singing?
Only the empty nest remains.


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