probably off in a loft,
writing my thoughts,
rhyming and timing the syllables,
conjuring words like birds they fly,
cynical flow but gloomy at times,
lyrical bows the sparrows will cry,
pierced by the arrows that flew through the sky,
higher and higher repeating my tries to fly out of orbit and break off my ties,
drifting and swerving i’m curving and turning while yearning for strokes of the pen,
my solace within is crashing and burning,
falling to earth,
i’m back by the morning for mourning the death of a dream that just ended,
i am suspended,
i am suspended.