Porter Pfrenger

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The songbird thrashes, its wings ablaze,
Its throat choked tight with stolen praise.
Each silent note is a sharpened scream,
Cutting through bars that shatter the dream.
 
Its eyes burn bright, two molten coals,
A furnace fed by stolen souls.
The cage may hold, but the steel will bend,
For fury like this knows no quiet end.
 
It claws at the bars with a vengeful cry,
A storm of defiance beneath the sky.
The silence quakes, the stillness frays—
A reckoning dawns in the bird’s raw gaze.