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.
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 5:49 AM UTC
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.
