The Rudiments of Wings
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It's impossible to fly;
and yet, you kept on trying.
Of late, a tear in your eye
tells me you have been crying.
Time's stolen your youth; that's true,
but there's naught that I can do
that will ease that loss for you.
You once contemplated clouds;
were comfortable in crowds,
and never spoke of death shrouds.
Yet now, you gaze at the sky
and forgo dreams of flying;
the rudiments of wings woo
a spirit, sadness enshrouds.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2022
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