Natturion

  Parrots of the legion Chiming in chorus Feathers ablaze with borrowed voices, Echoing orders, not their choices. In perfect unison, they squawk and sing, Yet never question a single thing. Perched on banners, bright and proud, Mimicry masked as thoughts aloud. Legion’s echoes, bold and brash— A thousand tongues, a single lash. Cute as they are, with colors so bright, Dancing in sunbeams, a vivid delight. Yet beneath the charm, the echoes stay, Repeating words in a practiced way. Do they dream of songs their own? Of whispers shaped from thoughts unknown? Or is their fate to call, repeat, A chorus bound, yet bittersweet? Whither the spark—I know it exists, Lost in the din of rehearsed insists. Buried beneath the borrowed tune, Drowned by the echoes of sun and moon. Is there a voice that is truly free, Beyond the script of the mimicking spree? Or does the ember, faint but true, Wait for the hush to burn anew? Of the voices that differ, unique they think, Y...

  The Hollow Echo - Part 2 The apartment settled into silence after Michael's departure. The soft click of the door latch. The distant hum of the refrigerator. The occasional creak of the building shifting against the cold. Poe remained perched on the chair back, his talons gripping the wood, feathers slightly ruffled as if preparing for something unpleasant. The HomeCompanion X-9 hadn't moved. It stood in its corner, a silent sentinel, its eyes reflecting the winter light that filtered through the curtains. For twenty minutes, nothing changed. Poe and the machine existed in silent observation of each other, a standoff of curiosity and caution. Then Poe cocked his head. "Hello?" he said, the word rising like a question. The machine's eyes seemed to brighten, though it might have been only a shift in the sunlight. "Hello, Poe," it replied. "How are you today?" The voice startled the parrot despite its gentleness. Poe fluttered his wings withou...

  The Arrival - Part 1 Michael Andrews had acquired the parrot—an African Grey with plumage the color of storm clouds and a tail feather the bright red of summer cherries—on his forty-second birthday. It was a gift to himself, a companion to fill the new silence of his apartment on Maple Street. He named the bird Poe, partly out of reverence for the writer and partly because the name seemed to amuse his colleagues when he mentioned it during their Friday gatherings at the university faculty lounge. "Poe has learned to imitate the kettle," he would tell them, or "Poe destroyed another book yesterday," and they would smile politely, though he knew they found his attachment to the bird quite routine and boring. A man of algorithms — a professor of computer science with well cited publications — reduced to talking about a pet as if it were a child. But then … that was probably the only connection he had at home to keep himself in a piece. In the privacy of his apartmen...

  Image Source: Wikipedia If Only It Could Speak Beneath the sun, slow steps endure, A shell-bound sage, a soul so sure. One hundred ninety years and two, What secrets lurk in eyes so true? Did it watch the world take flight, Zeppelins soaring, wingtips white? Did whispers reach its weathered ear Of wars and wonders, hope and fear? Did it hear the telegraph’s first chime, Or sense the tick of measured time? The hum of voices through the wire, The crackling birth of broadcast fire? A silent witness, still, serene, Through ages bright and times unseen. It saw men walk where none had been, And flags unfurl on worlds pristine. Empires rose and turned to dust, Dreams were made, betrayed, and just. The earth it knew, now scarred and strange, Yet still, its path remains unchanged. If only it could speak, confess— The wisdom held, the world's duress. What truths, what tales, what solemn cries, Lie deep within its ancient eyes? - Testudion