Wings, made
of feathers, made of sails, upon spirit, including you.
Made of short,
sweet elliptical breadth in a fast pretty penny energy spritz.
Airfoil of
the Auk -underwater little ripper, versatile beneath and over and in-between
Made of
sweet puffin and oopsey daisy mishaps and you
In the Summertime
sadness or the Wintertime wail of a Cistacola, hidden neath the sandy grasses
of rest.
In the
Springtime and the autumn soft fall of floating dreams and feathers shed and
growing back, made of you. The real one.
Wings made
of colours, conjointly lined in mission more and making, formed from crane
freedoms and open wild interpretations, made of them, made of you, made of me
and us.
Wings on
the back of life. Locomotive…. forward feather flappings and next….
Wings
shaped as butterfly –gauzy, finespun, subtle lights on and beautiful, seeming
breaking to some but steady owl to me and enduring.
Wings, made
of invisable dances and the curl of tiny pluming musical notes round lips and fingertips and up
and up and up.
Well thank you for commenting but sadly you are a bot. Rather depressing state of affairs is this kind of phenomenon. Suffice to say I will not be buying your legal herbal empire. Hopefully a real person came by my poem.
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