A Tiny Little Porcelain Bird

She was a dream, the tiny little porcelain bird was.

A surrogate reality, so fragile and so breakable.
She was a pillow in which my head could rest,
And my restless thoughts could dwell in the china she was made of.

Her wings were glued to her sides but she could fly.
She was heavier than glass but she could soar.

She was a dream, the tiny little porcelain bird was.

We walked through the skies and could not see the ground,
My porcelain bird and I. Clouds like cotton-candy cauliflowers
Were everywhere, but where the cauliflower stopped and the cotton candy
Started, I couldn’t be sure. I held her in my hand and she waited for me
On a canopy of surreal scaffolding, and I rock-climbed,
Delving the depths of that subterranean skyline,
With my heart in my hand,

And I have forgotten if I descended with eyes open, or closed.

Into the heart of that entropy I delved, plunging into a disorganized state,
Of increasingly arbitrary units, a problem of parallax error like no other.
I observed the passing scenery as I took my spelunking elevator into the skies.
It was lush, fading, and growing in places, transmogrifying like dreams in the day.
Fleeting glimpses of dreams with eyes open. It was gossamer artwork, etched
Into the everything of everywhere,
Like a moment of being shrunken into an atom, I descend
In that thirty seconds I am slipping, free-falling into the wellsprings of my mind as that masterwork
Of espresso art, disintegrates and coalesces into a picture-perfect polaroid
Of how I felt everyday, etherealizing into a reality that was an epiphany
Of how there was no other reality
I would rather know.

Atop, she sat cross-legged, smoothening her feathers when I arrived
She opens her mouth, makes as if to speak, when a sneeze like a whistle escapes her beak
She was too embarrassed to let it go, we ended up arguing for far too long
But at last I held her in my hands, lovingly, in all her little faults, that tiny little porcelain bird,
Ensconced in my hands, and she stayed, and we chose instead
To watch what we almost missed out on
The departure of the marvelous and brilliant Lady of Dusk
To watch her shy away from us, as a sun of flaming origami
Vacates our line of view, and gives us many unreasonable excuses yet again.

She was a dream, the tiny little porcelain bird was.