This comes out poor, and stale, and sour,
A nasty taste in my widowed hour.
I've peasant power and poverty dive,
And only clouds to which to strive
Towards now I'm flat and sore,
I'll eat my way out from the core.
The core, the cage, the falcon's rage,
I'll flap my wings and to prey engage.
My time, my will, my every need,
My empty chest I hope to feed.
To fill and fly from my despair,
To wave to mud, to kiss the air.
I'll seek my cloud - to hibernate,
To freeze my pain, sleep through my fate.
Ah! To sleep! A thousand year!
- Awake, no cloud, the coast? Clear.
To comatose, dismiss my foes,
Feel the ache of the Cupid's bows.
They bruise my feathers, hurt my red.
I'll lose too much and die instead.
My waiting grave, unlike my cloud
Lets out no cries, lets in no sound.
No..I think I'll fly once more,
Too young to be outside His door.
I'll lick my wounds and cross the seas,
Smile at fish, converse with the breeze.
Once it's past, my red will ease.
I'll backward eye and her I'll tease.
For Time is taking and filling in,
With fresh eyes, shall again begin.
Out of egg, regenerate,
Follow nature, search for mate.
But if I get shot once more,
And find it too much to endure,
I'll spread my wings and seek my cloud,
Cocoon in it; my whitened shroud,
Disintegrate, for tis allowed.