Jan 2015
I found a thrush,
To be but a rush,
With no movement.
It's feathers soft,
Saying a prayer,
From little of air.
He lay there,
In it's own sick -
Mind elsewhere.
Simply,
Blown away.
To be but a rush,
With no movement.
It's feathers soft,
Saying a prayer,
From little of air.
He lay there,
In it's own sick -
Mind elsewhere.
Simply,
Blown away.
