22/3/2021
The song of birds on a cold morn
as if discussing the coming of fierce rain
departing from their nests on to greener pastures
While thunders are roaring on the horizon.
Even seagulls chime in
as they pause their hunt for fish
off to hide into wet caverns
until the storm has passed on to other seas.
Their wings heavy with rainwater
stealing their ability to fly
to dance and soar on air
like only they could.
If I were a bird I'd welcome the rain
I'd let it drench my forlorn wings
and stop me from troubling travels.
Endeavors of recklessness and pain.
Alas, I'm not a bird,
my impulse unstoppable by rain.
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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐬ᵖᵒᵉᵗʳʸ
Poetry𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨 (n.) 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘤 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦, 𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯; 𝘢𝘮𝘢𝘻𝘰𝘯 Poems posted daily, for every day of the year. Works of an undefined theme with a touch of fantastical elements as well as a healthy dose of r...
