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