There's a dead sparrow on the street.
Its head laid low as if asleep.
Its feathers grew grey,
With no more shine.
Wings stay still with an end to flight.

Its friends and family, flying high,
Watching the sad sight from the sky.
Once a species of their kind,
The dead sparrow on the street,
Now an item no need to weep.

The dead sparrow on the street.
Open to the elements day and night,
Staying outside of the glistering light.
Tiny from the world around,
Alone on the street without a sound.

The living views it without a heed,
Seeing an outcast put to rest.
Foul expressions brought it out,
Others flight without turning around.
Children poke it with a stick,
Laughing at it in their wit.
Adults walk past and over,
Leaving the corpse to rot
Forever.

There's a dead sparrow on the street.
Infected with flies in the summer,
Frozen to ice in December,
Soaked to slush with the spring,
Forgotten and lost within the leaves.
Unsheltered from wind, rain, or snow.
Without a change, the seasons go.
There's a dead sparrow on the street,
Who had gone nowhere within the week.

The dead sparrow on the street.
Watching the world in the dark,
Waiting to vanish without a part.
There's a dead sparrow on the street.
Just let it rot to the ground,
Then it had never been around.