15th April, 2016 (working weak)

by Brendan Strong

The city is waking from its week
I am going home to sleep
Dodging slings and arrows
Of what when where and how
Escaping on the wheels of a bus
We go round and round
Round and round
Flapping wings and feathers
Brought us through the weather
Made of nothing but feathers
And bones. Feathers and bones
Bringing us home.

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