Solitude
A crested lark takes flight to the window,
Its façade, the simplest grace and flick of the wrist,
Upon the piano, in a pirouette of feeling,
Its symbol, the imperial freedom of flight.
It wears a rosette, bound fast in its beak,
And I rise from the single room storehouse,
The bold, arulean flame of a phoenix caged.
And it rises in...
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