a little bird sighs

in the midst of his troubles the little bird sighed
the width and conscription of the sky is too wide

I can’t fly the length and I can’t fly the height
I can’t fly the width though I flap with my might

further and further but no nearer I come
the horizon is stubborn and as tight as a drum

I flap and aspire, contend, compete ‘til I fade
and the ache in my back is a sharp as a blade

to tired to rest, I wheeze and I whisper and dose
a raven who listened thoughtfully froze

cogitating and reflecting he chose all his words

the best to be said, could be said between birds

I humbly submit to your noble, grand rapture

A prophesy of a intransigent censure

you don’t know the sky like you know your own sigh
if only you’d hear keenly and wouldn't repine

the wind and the air, its lift and its flow
it'll carry you further then you'd otherwise know

the sunsets the promise the sunrise brings peace
a promise you'd you’d hear if your sighing would cease

the depth of empyrean is etched on the glow
of the horizon’s seraphic pink light that does show
the sky’s great oriel to the hem of the sky
its breadth is the span of the day of this life

when you wield all your strength and you’ve sung your last song
the length of the sky will be something you'll long

Every last sigh of grief and contempt

Comes from the forgetting for what the heavens are meant

The raven took flight with his wisdom and thunder

And the small bird turned back to his sighing and slumbered