Helicopter Graveyard
The mechanical birds with broken wings,
Rust together with lofty dreams...
That they will yet fly again,
In a cloudless sky, in which to tend.
But for now,
They are parked like cars,
Lined up neatly,
In a helicopter graveyard.
Sale signs do adorn,
Many of their windows...
But even just for parts,
Freedom again, they will never know.
So in this place, you'll find no gravestones,
Just metal friends, in their unknown.
19-September-2021
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