Patient Bird

Reality changes,
In a puff of smoke.
Something’s missing.
The hand
Perpetually touching the page,
The hand
Constantly covered in clay,
The hand
Never still,
Is still,
Never to lift again.
The room shifts,
The walls quake.
The art
Falls from the walls,
To the floor,
And further still,
Down,
Down,
Down.
The bird hops
Down to the sill,
And chirps,
And hopes,
And waits.