The Robin spends their nights gazing at the rough ceiling above

Texture resembling popcorn, flourished under the pressure of heat

It’s a trial to escape their long inhabited cage, who will tell those pure naive doves?

that their life is one of affirmed defeat

The dove is free, beckoning, attempting to be tempting

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The Robin has considered it more times than let on

But that heavy, yet somehow empty, weight isn’t prone to denting

And those beckoning calls simply remain a folk song

Chains are manipulated, yet never completely shattered

They’re Stuck on the railroad tracks with an angry train gaining traction

Watch as they’re corroded as though they’ve never mattered

Only peer as the crows gain satisfaction

Is this a fate infected with meaning?

Are the efforts the doves exerted simply fruitless?

Oh, the winged creatures can spend the rest of their days keening

The devil’s work is ruthless