Belly of the Bird

Before the beginning, I was in the belly of the bird.
The wind was rushing outside,
with the lights turned down inside, only
the quiet din of robotic breathing could be heard.

Hours later, finally some courage found and so,
the woman and I spoke. This was still before the beginning,
She was old in her years and had biked the country,
and was living for more than just herself. End prologue.

In the beginning we were all newborn calves
treading on the soft grass of the Churchill,
with the piano in the distance, past the Obelisk.
The midpoint came.

I changed in those days. The lights were turned down,
There was no wind.
I remained barefoot on the felted ground,
My neck now pointed skyward for the future.

To make matters more textured, the people were full.
This felt rare at the time. The woman was an introduction.
One found solace in satellites and his God Himself.
Another had a false eye; he saw the World as data.

The man we called Graves held a summoning,
where we huddled around the obelisk.
We sung broken hums and chanted in
our broken songs. Wittgenstein smiled down below.

On the flight back I was alone,
no other bodies, only memories.
The songs still played softly,
in the spaces with no wind.

Notes

Nice sounding, needs to be rehashed in some places. Could be made metrical if given enough effort?