The cage swings, unused, rusted and creaky,
the reddish powdery coat making it look ominous and eerie.
It holds a bowl, caked with dry remains among litter,
and the base mapped with marks of rainwater.
A symbol, oft associated with restriction,
looks almost helpless when surrounding to liberation.
Right next to the lonely cage,
colours of brighter emotions taint the page.
Fluffed feathers, biting beaks and important airs,
an electric line they all amiably share.
Flying around and tweeting little nothings,
maintaining distance with cage even while flapping their wings.
The omnipresent fear that they will be locked again,
comparing cage to the blues, restriction rings of pain.
The air of bindings swirls around like a mist,
as tangible as a suffocated bird in a beefy fist.
Long shadows of iron bars measure the ground,
the birds leave in unison with a quiet shuffling sound.
The line moves, still eidetic, with a feather or two,
The full moon rises and bathes the cage in pale blue.