Hopeless Romantic. Grounded Realist. Jaded Cynic.
and the bird thought wrong
the winds she feels around her
lifting and letting her soar
turns out to be artificial
then why doesn't any of this felt new?
how come the eyes shifted focus so easily?
what kind of landscape does her heart wear now?
melted snow or bubblegum wraps
littered down her feet?
it is not solace that the bird seeks
for she knows the futility
of the hunt for peace of mind
the search parties ebbed like
waves crashing on ocean front.
nor it is a resting place that the bird longs for
she knew better than to presume
the place to be more than a mirage
shifting like strands of dusty sand
blown by the feisty desert.
the earth rumbles forth
heating her chapped lips
the blue veins on her beak
distinguished by the
tears mingled with raindrops.
the storms won't abide
the salve the bird carried on her back
with all the other burdens
can't work any longer
making her gait falters
her flight is guided, yes
but then all around her
she sees creatures
all running headlong
through, below and above
she sees them supported.
years and seconds
millennias and minutes
no more she sees the distinctions.
and the bird refused still
to stand corrected.
