Upon my bed I lay, without repose.
From whence my weary soul has come, distraught,
is much too daunting. ‘gainst me such my prose
has pled, “Release, I beg thee! Struggles fought
in God’s eternity, our passions’ throes,
remain without resolve. I ask why, caught
‘twixt love and lost, thou press thyself so. Ought
one cherish heart’s gift, passion orange rose?”
To this misguided art thus I replied:
“If our sad plight reduced to such, then we
should not distress ourselves. But this is quite
disparate. I discovered, shocked, her sight,
her smell, her music, forgotten to thee.
This shame revealed, I now ask: has it died?”

He stared sardonically at the scrap of sheet music laying before him. It was utter garbage. The melody resembled some sort of natal wail. No it didn't, he immediately corrected. It sounded nothing of the sort. He sighed softly at that. Even his poetry was lacking. How could he ever hope to accomplish anything if he couldn't even describe his failures with any eloquence?

He leaned back in his chair to stretch his back. With a yawn, he glanced about the room. The mess, dishes and clothing, strewn across the room was a constant embarrassment. But still he did not clean. Why? His eyes rested on the cage and he smiled, once more content. His little bird danced inside, chirping. Dancing, yes. His little bird, trapped as he was, could do nothing more but dance. Ah, what it would be like to be a bird!

Isn't that just what I've been doing? he thought. This whole room spoke of bird. The trash everywhere, the room stuffy and dark. Even his sad attempts to find an apartment in the city attested to this. In reality, he could do nothing else but be a bird - to be anything else would be absurd.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. And with a grin he began to scribble some notation once more on the sheet.