Demise of the Frail and Assail of the Skies
The bird wanted to fly
But the wind wanted to blow
“Rest now bird”, said the wind
“You now take it down slow,
And let me flow.”
The bird accepted thinking it was a request,
And ignored the proud in his words,
She sat down on the branch to rest,
Keeping down her guards,
Unaware of what is next.
An hour passed,
But still the wind didn’t stop,
Now the pace became fast,
Now the wind gone, in place was the storm.
Unable to stand against it,
The bird felt helpless.
The emergence of automatic persuasion,
Left the bird in stress.
Her home is not the ground,
She lives in the sky,
Feeling gloomy and bound,
She doesn’t even try to fly.
She stays where she was,
And starts envying the wind,
The kind of power he has,
That brought down even the born free.
Flying is what she loves,
And the feeling of spreading the wings,
Something that cannot be expressed in words,
The beauty can only be felt within,
But when the storm persists on blowing,
The persuasion reminded the bird of a cage.
The feeling of being trapped,
Even turned down the sage,
Within the bird and now a panic engulfed,
Because everything was happening against her will,
And the storm and his manic laugh,
Harassing and shrill,
Dominating over the world with his power.
Now there is water added,
Pouring everywhere from the sky,
So hard that the vision blurry and fade,
The bird now wants to hide.
And so she trusts the woods,
Under the leaves she takes shelter,
Hoping the safe place could,
Understand and help the helpless her.
But today even the trees are of no help,
The rain is too heavy,
No matter where she hides,
Towards her somehow it will glide.
A day passed but still the storm wasn’t satisfied,
He kept on blowing,
Kept dominating the little with pride,
But the bird was now over sorrowing,
So, she decided to challenge the flowing.
And it seemed like years had passed,
Since the bird took a flight,
Into the blue and those effects that lasted,
Of serenity, luxury and rights.
Now the tolerance was coming to an end,
Her loud chirping of frustration speaks,
And so she comes out of the safe place and,
Into the grey she leaps.
It’s like, she dares the storm,
Even though she knows it’s futile,
The proud in him confirms,
That the end could be brutal.
But the little now doesn’t care,
She just wants to fly.
The storm does see the bird’s hindrance,
But would not understand the heart,
He will do what he wants,
That is what he is doing from the start.
He will choose when to come,
His wish no one can predict,
When his fun will become,
A thing getting vapid,
He’ll spare the imploring planet.
The rain can be the reason of someone’s laughter,
It can also make one morose.
The torrent of pouring water,
Is also something he does.
If his will says,
It’ll be a shower of delight.
If he wants it to be the other way,
It can become an element of fright.
Now after going a mile,
The bird is in terror,
Still the storm being hostile,
And the bird being the bearer.
Though she is tired,
But hasn’t lost all hopes,
And so with eyes like angel she desired,
The thoughts of good and optimism.
But when she looked up with faith,
And saw the grey sky,
She fatigue and her pale breath,
But still she flies.
“Stubborn she is no less”,
Thinks the storm, and now he the outrageous,
Losing his charge on the rage,
The sky shines a red that’s vicious.
Then from somewhere a lightning bolt,
Suddenly strikes before the bird,
While she runs from the jolt,
Several others in her surround appeared.
She moves carefully,
But the storm is furious,
And he would not stop,
Until he becomes victorious.
Then a surprising tremor ripples,
Through her and little’s every part stops,
Down the bird with rush tumbles,
With eyes full of teardrops,
And her vision turns grey,
But did she lose the fray?
As the bird, hit the soil,
She remembered a life,
A life that never once gave her the turmoil,
But always love in rife.
Also a light that the bird saw,
When she first opened her eyes,
Now got vacuumed,
Leaving behind the blackness of demise.
The storm witnessed the whole saga,
But still he won’t remorse,
A beautiful little lay dead down,
Sometime else, again a creature would morose,
Because the nefarious never bows.
Copyright © Tuisha Sircar