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Jun 2012
The heavenly, upon the mortal earth, they gracefully fall,
Be it the burdened Oak leaves fiercely stripped of all.
For upon the ground do these golden items lay a’peace,
But surely does such great flare and color cease.
And surely will, what once golden, now deceased, rot and fade,
Giving way to the diet of worms to consume, ‘til it decayed,

For it is winter that draws a’near this dreadful season,
The abandoned of life around is but the resulting reason.
Before the heavenly sheet masks the lonesome land,
Before the clouded skies return its fated demand,
Fly, fly, must these cherished birds to the South,
The directions, to each other must they then mouth.

Oh, to be’st the bird, should we all greatly wish,
Employed not, yet only to feed upon its dish.
And only to have the needs that truthfully count,
That of which are life, food, and shelter we all discount,
Beclouded, must we as the greatest individuals be,
Ungrateful for the things that we have been given free.

And so, must we mask our needs with things we pretend,
Are of greater value than those we should really commend.
But yes, a lonesome bird needs not to think nor fear,
Of its faithful future that slowly creeps a’near.

For a bird needs not to worry about fulfilling its dream,
To be’st alive is but a greater gift than those extreme,
Until he who thinks the greatest individual is himself draws near,
And from their body and soul must apart he tear.
To hold the trophy of the superior being,
Must those of inferiority lay rest or fleeing.

Oh, to be a bird is but a greatful and heavenly life,
Free of humanly constructs acting as both blade and knife,
That tears and shed and manipulates the human soul,
Forcing one to live beneath the abysmal hellish hole.
Free of that treacherous label of both race and class,
Free from that stamp of color and wealth and belief, alas.
Free from the tortures that upon themselves humans place.
Free from the superior mind that games itself as disgrace.
Free from the jealousy that roots in one,
When another finds of a greater sum.
Free from the troubles that root in the Earthly land nigh,
For upon the Heavens may these birds undoubtedly fly.

And to fly a’South, is all that these birds gracefully do,
So to the treacherous North, do they bid their adieu.
A poem on the misfortunes of human society.
Jay M Wong
Written by
Jay M Wong
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