only a few can fly

dread fills me as i gaze upon your frail form
crushed into the pavement,
a flurry of feathers and beak,
a twisted wing or tail.

your eyes are stuck to the sky.
i wonder, is this God’s last mercy?
to grant you the wish of choosing your last sight,
the solace of the endless blue.

sweet little thing, why does your chest no longer rise and fall?
why do you not speak?
i was not born with wings.
if you cannot fly, who will?