Flying Through The Cycle


Gently, softly, flies the feather,
Upon the youngest and brightest small breeze.
It floats through with low, quiet innocence.
Above it, many miles, floats a grey cloud,
Which weeps to downward with many a drop,
The rains bringing down life on unseen wings.

A nest of chicks flare their wings,
The sky’s tears rolling off of every feather,
They dare not pass the nest’s edge to the drop,
For they cannot be carried by the breeze,
Their youth and bravery does not their minds cloud,
And they avoid the fall in their innocence.

The sun shines on the world’s innocence,
As it flutters above on shining wings.
The pale light reaches Earth even through a thick cloud,
Every ray, a caress soft as a feather,
Playing with the trees as much as the breeze,
And behind the horizon, it does drop.

Over the perilous drop,
The canyon, where not even innocence
Can survive the harsh, crisp, and crushing breeze,
The age-old vulture flies one tattered wings.
The wind has torn its way through every feather,
The sun’s glare not broken, even by cloud.

Warmth and age, the mind do cloud,
Every thought but another fleeting drop,
Into the pool of age, edge a-feather.
Wisdom replaces treasured innocence,
Transient time flies by on gilded wings.
The last breath passes as the lightest breeze.

There is not even a breeze,
In the cold silence of that empty cloud.
Carried through the void on skeletal wings,
It goes to the final abyss, the drop,
Into the bright old world of innocence,
Once more riding by, a tiny feather.

The breeze carries it along, past the drop,
A tiny cloud, bursting with innocence,
To bring the feather once more to new wings.


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