untrue to their wings

across from the mill in your backyard is where the emptiness sits.
talks to loneliness and laughs at happiness.
feathers fall off of birds untrue to their wings.
and small minded picture frames hold frozen yesterday's and sometimes when i look out the window of your living room i can see those frozen frames come alive again.
as if the concept of breath was injected into the paper.
and smaller bowls of "hello's" lay on your windowsill, staring at the birds outside,
feathers falling from their wings.