Tuesday, 10 May 2016

Wingless Bird

So is it impossible?
To be what I'm not
Or escape the identity the heavens gave
Its not that I'm lost
Just inspecting my sides.

Laughter and tears altogether
when the cocktail is a mix
A mix worthy of a blissful purge.
I'm a lamp with oily wicks
And a shadow of many doubts.

A walking contradiction?
Seems so.
I've never ridden the cirrus clouds
But I remain a bird
Without what makes one.

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