A Fat Old Bird

I am a tiny core of intent and plans

pressed upon by layers and layers

of tangled unraveling loose threads.

My mouth is muffled by distractions,

my hands are paralysed

by the pull of opposing sides.

My eyes are blinded by sleep,

heavy and light-sensitive.

My heart is a fat old bird in a cage,

fluttering its wings with little effect,

yet believing that every single wing beat

causes a quake somewhere,

shaking immovable Things,

rumbling changes.