What happens to the abandoned nests
when the birds have fled?
Do they hang as our hollowed dreams,
or do they haunt us
like fossils of our broken promises,
or do they stand and decay
like emptied carcasses of our memories –
when all have left
and ashes have been washed off the shores
into our remembrances?
What stories are left behind,
buried in these abandoned nests –
these hanging stark skeletons –
twigs upon twigs
belied hopes upon hopes.
What happens to those silenced stories?
do they fade away,
meekly succumbing to our forgetfulness,
or are they cajoled into our dreams
by our nostalgia and cherished melancholies?
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