Some say they hear bumps in the night. When investigated, there’s often nothing, and no one there. Perhaps it’s just the old building settling down after a hard days work. The wooden rafters contracting under their heavy load. Whatever it is, these sounds can be unsettling, unlike the sound of the ghost canary.
Not many hear her over the din of other sounds. The very fact she seems to just sit and sing is a strange phenomenon in itself, not to mention, she isn’t real. Female canaries aren’t even supposed to sing. Then again, if you mentioned either thing – real or sing – perhaps offence, would be the result.
It’s only out of the corner of the eye, can she, be seen. The sound is clear enough. A beautiful song sung, just for the sake of singing, or she hoping to attract a mate, another ghost canary out on the wing? There are a lot of them when you take the time to notice, freed from the black mines, where they died, of our fire.
It’s that thing about being at peace I suppose, when you simply find pleasure, in singing a song. After all, the ghost canary is no more afraid of us, than we are of it, or once we’ve investigate, the nothingness of that bump!
You’ll also see the ghost canaries when you’ve nothing to prove; no hidden agenda, no lonely message, no love to find. It’s that peace of mind that causes you to sing, even when there’s no one there. I sense those people retired from it all, they’ve done their bit, made peace with the world. Never assume it makes them as harmless as a canary… mind.
You might think she sits in a little house, discarded on a kitchen cupboard, amongst pots and pans with unloved mugs sat cold. But no, she’s everywhere, it’s only the symbol that’s static you see. She plays her tune in your left ear, then it’s your right, all because this time you’re listening, no more in a fright.
She doesn’t love you, it isn’t that causing her to sing. It’s her freedom dong that. The ghost of her former self, giving us a sign. Her beauty and gentle sensitivity, used by the gorgons, to save their wretched lives. Carried deep underground, where the poisonous truth filled her lungs, choking out her life, so fast, the gorgons had time.
There are no canaries left, to do this job for us now, we must find a better way, to dispel our poisonous gas. No gentle souls are prepared to give us their time. We’ve used that particular card, way too many times. But bless the little ghost canaries, as we enjoy their song, freed from the hazards, the hazards of mine.