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i am a bird; fleeting.

my feathers are no longer beautiful
they are weathered from the cold
and so is my soul
this place is no longer habitable for me
migration is the only cure
for my capsized wings
fleeting;
the time
the seasons
the spirits around you
ever changing.
stagnancy may kill you little bird
i fear you know it’s time to go.

Other works by linds hayes...



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