That night, she woke with eyesight bleary
Her head was limp; her soul was weary,
Yet, toward the windowsill, she spied
To find a gray seagull had died. 

His eyes were frozen in a gaze
His feathers ripped, as done by craze,
But how, oh how, could this have been –
The resting bird, victim of sin? 

His beak was bloodied to the bone
But nary was one bleat or moan.
What forced the girl awake to find
A scene so violently maligned?

The question: Did the girl at all
Arise to find the mangled maul,
Or was her life so much deprived
That such indulgence was contrived?

Was she the one who on that night
Removed the gray seagull from flight,
And bludgeoned him, for sake of thrill
To quench her troubled need to kill?

Alas, to many, she was sweet
A neighbor girl, seen on the street,
But deep inside, her secrets dwelled
Her anger swirled; her fury swelled. 
 

Until the eve, the seagull came –
He called to her, speaking of shame,
And when she peered into her life
She found herself consumed by strife.

And so upon that starless eve
With kitchen knife, hidden by sleeve,
She raised the windows, one by one
And pierced the bird, as if for fun.
  

Then with no real remorse, she slept
Until she found her shame had crept,
Into the room, howe'er in vain
To prove she caused the seagull pain. 

Her conscious had no sense at all
When darkened shadows etched the wall,
Of what transpired, until she spied
Upon the ledge the gull had died. 
 

When she awoke with eyesight bleary
Her head was limp; her soul was weary,
She found the seagull’s stolen life
Residing by her kitchen knife.  

Grief-stricken o’er the horrid scene
She purged a stake into her spleen,
To end her battles, full and fraught
Ceasing her life, ne’ermore distraught. 
 

From within Hell, the gray bird cheered
He laughed; he cried and even sneered,
The seagull that chose not to fight
Had brought a bitter truth to light.

The girl had often been perceived
As someone who was quite naive,
But deep within, she kept a side
Of cruelty that she could not hide.

Then at the dawn, with eyesight bleary
A man arose, both limp and weary,
To find this tale, his sister scribed
Before she and the seagull died.

    © 2006 - Jill Eisnaugle's Poetry Collection