The Fourth.

Photo by Old Youth on Unsplash

Contained. Nine months in

ma’s. Flushed out into

a world this one

could be the fourth




bird. Singing a song

for another. That childhood

was a wasted, redundant

replay. One day, he

opened the music box

He found nothing but

the weight and warmth

of a pocket knife.




bird kept on burning.

Ashes of wings became

memories. Listen. The bird

lived, then died every

single time. Its own

song no longer a

secret. No, you are

not a mistake.


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