The Hawk

Glide, my lad, glide, let the breezes carry you on a midday ride. The sun is out, the sky is blue, wings outstretched, life is you. But for living there is a price, no updrafts, no downdrafts, no paradise. Whims of the wind might cause a crash, dust to dust ashes to ash. Enjoy each moment that you fly, but always aware of the day you die.

Bluejay

Veteran of old My Poetry Forum before its hiatus. Happy to be back.

More about me