How ugly we are
that we swipe away
our birds in hand
for a sea of plenty fins,
like passers by in a crowd, contrived,
smiles and torsos
flocked in bird waltz nouveau;
maybe we only show our wings
when we know we're out of reach,
like anyone chose
which clouds swiped our sky,
while we drown below or learn to fly.

12/31/2018

Posted on 12/31/2018
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