The bird in the box

It was injured.
He picked It up,
And slowly lowered It into a box.
The box was covered with a cloth,
The box had holes in it.

The bird, did not move,
It was injured.
He took care of It with all his heart.
The box was slowly shrinking.
The care bore fruit.

The bird started to peep out,
The blue eyes wide in the bright light.
It was surprised, for It was alive.
He had taken great care.
The bird tried to hop out.

The box had become smaller,
The holes had shrunk.

The bird walked out of the box.
The bird refused to go back in.
It longingly looked at the sky.

When It was last there,
The predator had attacked.
The battle was in mid air.
The claws slowly sunk in.
They left bruises very deep.

The truth shall set you free,
They said to the bird.
The bird tried...
The care was shackled around It.
The deep affection prevailed.

The truth dug It's grave deeper,
They refused to hear out.
Believing was not a question.
They ignored It outright.
For them It was no more a bird.

He tried to set It free,
Love has no bounds.
Not knowing that it was love,

That had clipped those pretty wings.
That had not set It free.

The predator had attacked once.
The eagle had tasted blood,
And the bird had tasted pain.
Pain not close to It's reality,
Pain which knew no bounds.

The bird was younger than many,
Pain was not as alien as pleasure
Pain was not as known as gain.
The pain had not known boundaries,
The pain had not left memories.

The pain slowly became a solace,
The pain slowly ceased to live.
It would hop into the box and strain.
The box was It's object of reverence.
The box was It's object of pain.

He was willing to overlook,
The bird squirming in pain.
Slowly he forgot,
About all the care he had laid,
In the box covered with cloth.

He watched from a distance,
Look he surely would,
He simply forgot to see,
It was not truth,
But pain which set It free.

He revolted at the mutiny,
For the bird had not flown,
Months had gone by,
Before It had really shown,
The courage and the will to fly.

He was taken aback by it all,
The love now turned sour,
Regret of even letting It walk,
Crept in with so much more,
Was it all in his mind, It thought.

The bird tried not to fly far,
Kept a measuring string attached.
It peeped back in the window,
And hid in the box such,
It hid from the world and Itself.

Forgetting all the pain It felt,
It reveled in pleasure now.
Not knowing the bounds then and now.
It flew much beyond,
What the string could count.

He gave up on It,
He took to caring again,
This time for a kitten instead.
He gave up on It forever,
Yet did not set It free.

The truth had failed It,
Now so had he.
The love had taken to remorse,
The knowledge to stealth,
And happiness to hiding.

Only pain had been a friend,
A companion when It was sad,
Standing in timed both good and bad.
To which It took again.
To which he kept looking back.

The only constant was change,
The change of suffering,
From one kind to next.
For now it was not change,
But suffering the constant.

For the last time the bird slipped in,
That box of love, fame and shame.
It went under the cloth,
The holes had long gone,
The eyes closing, never to open again.