Sunday, November 22, 2015


I was counting to a hundred per cent of sure
For you to capture that wild, feathered hope;
To hear you triple locking it behind your door.

Now that your ship of hopes is safe to moor
I can release my flock of words awol at sea
And hope for them to reach your shore.

They are unorderly, disheveled; but for all it’s worth, they’re pure.
Don’t know how to swim, do not have a gps, nor a travel plan.
But, they would not serve a sentence behind my locked door.

So, here they are, randomly flapping their syllable overture:
Pray for all to find their way and land safely at your faraway shore.

If half of them make it and reach you, fly in through the frame of your decor,
Hope you recognize their provenance, lay them down on a paper bed,
Put their limbs back together; don't leave them squirming on the floor.
Assemble their meaning and (mind you!) detain that 'n' from ‘nevermore’.

(to my beloved migratory birds, who fly away to faraway shores)

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