JennaOfWhiteWater94

Sing me a song my little caged bird.  Sing me tunes of flying in the blue sky.  Warble out a song for me,  Little caged bird.  Little bird,  Sheltered behind brass bars and silver bells.  Never reaching the moon,  Singing by the window,  Of dreams of touching a cloud.  Keep on singing my little trapped bird.  Sing to me in the trills of  Bells and chimes.  Sing me a song, my little slave bird.  Tunes and melodies,  Harmonies and lullabies.  Do you still sing when I pluck your wings?  Will you sing as I clip your pinions?  When I hold you in my hand,  Will you sing as I stop your escape?  Let me hear your little chirps,  Your whistling,  Let me hear your secrets.  Sing to me, little bird,  Sing while you stay  Trapped,  Imprisoned,  Bound,  In my golden brass cage. 

A single candle burned in the window, flickering light and gay, As the cabin it resided in beckoned menacingly for weary travelers. It promised something, something that was both heavy and light, both lying and truthful. Whoever looked at the candle was entrapped like a moth, drawn to the warm light.  Millie watched the dancing flame, while somewhat low and yet still ever-so-bright, flickered like someone was breathing softly behind it, dancing in the subtle and invisible breeze. They were entranced as the flame licked at the dew condensed windows, much like the inquisitive fingers of a bored toddler. They drove past this cabin hundreds of times, maybe more, ignoring the thick glass windows caked with years of mysterious muck and both yard and road overgrown with unfriendly plants such as knapweed, thistle, blackberry brambles, hogweed, nettle and sharp leafed bear grass. But now...there was a plain white candle tiptoeing in the window. And their car broke down.   Millie was not truly

A thousand tiny thoughts a day Dance and resonate inside my head. Intrusive, wistful, angry, lustful, and lonely. Some of them repeat, most of them scrambled Like a bag of cardboard puzzle pieces, Connecting into a large picture, but not All fitting together. A thousand thoughts a day, a million a week, They bounce around, forming into new strings, Some braiding into something legible; Others forming as nothing but a ball of twine, Tangled and discombobulated. The thoughts repeat, Over, And over, and over. Some of them glistening new, Some of them make-believe and wishwash. Thoughts of probabilities, Of impossibilities. A thousand thoughts a day, A million a week, A trillion a lifetime. Thoughts are faster than you think, So, what are you thinking?