I cling to the sky with silver fingers
Bending in the wind, swinging side to side
Precariously, with the confidence of the thought-irrelevant.
As it swirls and rises, stale air wafts scents to me
Death, decay, stilled breath, rotting flesh - the delights of life!
I fall upon them, sky to earth, stoic to epicurean
Devour what others cannot, will not, should not
And with cutting beak sever the Gordian knot tying mortality down.
A few foiled thrusts return I to the blue
Black on crimson, sunlight on a tilting mirror
Reflecting one side, then the other
Of the inadequacies
Of the poor ground-bound.
This blog fazes fascists