Wings thrash out harsh

songs of confinement.

As notes slip through

desperate fingers, legacy is

left to a fading memory.


A panic of thought,

feathers fall, moods swirl and

black storms hold sway.


Blood-ways and sinus pounds.

As if a moth, dream snared.


Inside a compound

of dark thought.

A pain that washes

in this moon cramped

spring tide.


Crows break their way

through dawn eyes.

Baby wasps sting as

they carry tears,

wetting the air.

Watch angry journeys

turn to sad mornings.


Sick thoughts still hang,

their tendrils saliva stretched.


Sun rise breaks this riot of quiet.

Slough off sleep,

Still the times, slow the crisis.


And slowly this foot

taps out a requiem.

To celebrate a life of light.


© Dai Fry 23rd January 2020.



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