The Frigid Finch

I Silently sipping the last limping remains of wine within the crumbling confines of my glass. guiltlessly glistening in the amorous arms of evergreen. Lonesomely, my eyes lift themselves up from my blackened blue brass bottle of bitterness and gradually grows aware of the arid aristocratic atmosphere. Lustered with the luminous larks who lurk within the numbing neon nature of the iridescent nightlife. But among these unfruitful flocks feebly flutters the faint fanciful feathers of the frigid finch. Who still sternly staggers his weakened way through the world’s wishful word woven woodlands of what if towards the eternally terminal edge of mortality. In search of an answer patiently perched upon the topic of what light lingers within the relieving realms of truth.