Still Hunting

In the antique shop,

that pheasant, perched

on a fake branch, dusted up.

Its feathers, a riot

of rust and green,

still bright, almost preening.

But the eyes. Two glass beads,

catching the weak light,

staring at nothing,

full of needs

it can't remember.

A perfect imitation,

a taxidermied ember.

It's still, but it's not peaceful.

Just stuck.

A forever moment,

never quite real.

Trying so hard to look alive,

but the air around it

is just dead. It won't revive.

And it’s still here.

Waiting for something

that will never come near.