Baby birds sit still,
sleeping softly, in baby eggs not hatched,
while mother bird waits patiently
for little shells to crack.

Now little birds with open eyes
chirp sharply without rest,
and mother bird leaves speedily
to gather worms and crumbs of bread.

After their meals, the little birds
are filled with food and joy,
'till mother bird hops closer
to help them soon deploy.

With harried squeaks
and frenzied flapping,
they fall down from their nest,
and mother bird, from up above,
spies patiently, in hopes of their success.

Thousands of atoms shift
ever so violently to produce
an ever so slight smile,
exploding with the
power of ten thousand suns,

While puffs of air pass pleasantly
from the depths of thriving lungs
out of crooked lips
made of thousands of tiny atom's sons,

And little worlds of white and
ragmatical strings of red
house smaller worlds of
brown and green,
and black which they embed,

Which all in all,
though each so small
and grand in their own way,
partake in that that's necess'ry,
to make up someone's face.

From the right and left,
my phobia attacks me.
Smells of unfamiliarity
and rain in my boots
climb the peaks of my
grand smelling utensil.

I wonder if the woman
sitting next to me has
noticed the smell of my
feet I washed so hastily,
or the body that my soap
didn't meet, or the weak
cologne wrapped around
my neck.

Quite possibly, she can't
smell a thing; her nose
may be too stopped up;
perhaps it isn't listening.

In reality, my senses blind me.
Alone, I cannot smell the
wonderful and horrid odors
of my body.  She stands up
and leaves; I let my mind digress;
however, I am met with the fact
that whoever sits next will
make me face the same
sub-conscious test.

Weary hobbling men,
of stature far from social statutory,
embody brief hypotheses of me.

Weary hobbling men,
managed by bronzed and tall
strong handsome men,
embody sick hypocrisy.

Blind old beggars,
who sit on broken concrete
and breathe through broken lungs,
speak clearly of what resides in not what eyes speak,
but of what love and trust sing.

They see more than we,
for they, both blind and whis’pring,
are contented just to breathe.