I hear the singing, as alarms go off.
The wings are spread - no heaven lies above.
Unravel with your beak the threads of
my scarf.
I see the branches bending under weight
implied by claws of wind and eyes of storm.
The cold is wanted at the only state:
when warm.
The morning comes when perfect silence does.
And dualism of things crawls out to sun
to get your basic word defining buzz
undone.
Nightingale
© Copyright: Артем Хабипов, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115060605018
Свидетельство о публикации №115060605018
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