Beneath The Tumult



Beneath my tumult,

that ever pressing ill

aspect that crawls it

is showing pain real.


I want to go missing,

and read the headline.

They’d say little for in

me little they’d find.


So I guess my chaos,

ever pressing me ill,

I’ll have to cut to nill;

hence this blue pill.


I want to be simple,

but everything fixed

into the depths mind

of mine hurt afflicts.


I want to be a bird so,

I might feed on seed;

I want hollow bones I

want only for to feed.


Make a few boards so

I may see such a sight.

Hesitant hand feed me;

I soft want not a fight.


I want the dew to slip,

over my sturdy talon.

I ever forward fly now,

troubles without them.



Photo By Me

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