Trust is a feeble thing.

If a tiny little bird,

falls from a sheltered nest

and drops into your skirt,

eyes still closed in rest,

take it like a savor.

Cover it in human scent,

no longer mother natures,

for you it was sent.

If you let it pass away,

it's a mothers heart break,

it's the body of betray,

burry it in the worst ache.

Lay her precious flowers,

decaying white roses,

innocence's dying hours.