Walkin on Air

It's the Pain


On a tiny branch
protruding the cliffs' overhang
midst stormy threats
akin a drunken brawler,
clings a wondrous songbird
in the rain and thundering
of the unkind gods
oblivious to the vicious onslaught:
delighting in its own exquisite dryad.

Not far off
on a grassy knoll
hides a beautiful flower
beneath hard unfeeling rocks
knowing the day is nigh
it must be plucked:
yet
unless the flower is crushed,
perfume
how shall it be made
to entice?


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It`s the Pain

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