Burning feathers

What scrapes at the inside of this skull?
Trying to break free from mirroring misery.
A bird trapped, or a candle with no flame.
Fighting against something that isn’t there.
Inside these reflections, dwells a silent creature.
Bound in feathers, but fearing flight.
Waiting to breathe, to fly and ignite.

Somebody else

‘You cannot say that’, he heard him say.
Late in the evening on that autumn day.
You do not know, and cannot see.
The way she acts and thinks of me.
He sighed in the mirror and captured a glance.
At the scene around him, and as if by chance.
The phone beside him, rang out in alarm.
So he put the gun down, and out stretched him arm.
‘Hello, it’s me’; he heard them whisper.
Down the line, in words much crisper;
than the vision before his eyes.
Which was strange and blurry, and full of lies.
The body lying there belonged to the voice.
Which then quite suddenly, gave him a choice;
‘Come with me Michael and leave this place’.
It cooed and called with maximum haste.
But just then a shadow entered.
Another spectre, in his life now centered.
And beckoned him with a bony finger.
Calling him hither, and as it lingered.
The voice down the line demanded the gun,
be picked up at once, so around he spun.
To face that image glaring back.
He fired three times, until all was black.
The voices had silenced, gone away forever.
That pulling thread, cut and sever.
From poor old Michael and his mental stage.
That had plagued him from an early age.
He was now adrift and finally free.
From somebody else, someone not me