He was always grateful for losing himself
In the flourish of a crowd
When the skin-splitting eyes of the sun
Had descended upon him

But long past the noise
The crowd would swell into an army
Of blood-lusting hounds
Baying serenades
Through the bleak heart of his slumber

Now, he only adheres
To his most childish whims
To his calling of flight

How often
He flutters away
With such cowardly ease

 

 

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