The dream let loose its chirm of birds,
Each one had words to call the world:
The verbs of night, the howling nouns,
All clichés bursting from their beaks.
And in their flock, right at its heart,
The silent bird, the mystery bird,
Swept all the others round the wood.
It led them, though it never spoke.
The birds had followed through a storm:
Bedraggled, fuddled, half alive,
For news had spread that HE would speak
And tell them all how they should be.
He opened up his awful beak
And to their horror, softly squeaked.
inspired by prompt #5 – Cliche from