A chickadee will never see
How a blind composer took her phrase, and added to it a melody—
A famous tragic song of love for all
Who love the difficult love, which holds us all in thrall.
The bird on the bough will never know the plan
To abort the child because it was a different man,
And that the aborted child was born alive and almost saved,
The DNA was switched by the trusted doctor she thought
She loved, and, as the doctor came to murder her, was caught,
And murdered by the assumed father, the rival, as she was slain.
Will poetry, or the chickadee, ever be more than it is, if it knows this pain?
Scarriet 
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