They say, to be a bird is to be free
But have they ever considered how the birds feel?
Do they feel free?
They’re stuck in the same cycle every day
Don’t they feel tired or bored?
Their parents did the same things before
And their parents before them
Their just repeating
Again and again
Are birds really free?
Stuck in their cycle
With no change

From where did I come from?
From whence did I arrive.
Was I 3, 4, 5, or 6 when my eyes could see things weren't alright.
Did the earth put me here to brings peace?
Does the bird think about its past nest.
Will the sea rise.
The sun explode.
And to where do I put my parents to rest?
Will I regale my children with tales of valor?
Will I curse their existence.
Do I deserve to be alive right now?

The bird does not let its past nest hold it down.
The sea will find a home somewhere else.
And I will be, just here. Breathing deeply, to make sure I'm still alive.

The moon poured over the
       moors
                     and the night-birds
howled                through the wind.
The stars shuddered in their
midnight sky                  and whispered his
name amongst themselves.

He could do nothing but swallow
his tears in her memory.

The bird is thankful
For each new day
To fly away.
Again .
To new hights.

Shell✨🐚

Birds of a feather flock together in the sultry atmosphere, whirring in and out of crepuscular clouds as if it were nothing special. feathers more like needles blacked under the godless face of the wind. The cliff's voice clings to their sun-smeared backs, reminds them of his own position on an empty, red planet and they sing back that gravity lament. The sky goes on about the lovely morning air and sunlight marches when all birds want is a place to lie down from that brittle flight, to rest their hollow bones filled with a lost longing.