Tiny midnight bird
alone in the sky,
resting after it's morning fly.
It begins to sing
a beautiful cry;
preaching sigh.
Again,
midnight bird,
flies past us,
flies past the sky,
to nest in the trees.
We wonder just why
he still cries
and flies
alone,
every day,
upon every night,
is he in pain,
does he feel such fright?
He, a beutiful creature,
without a care,
goes everywhere
even
still alone
he sits,
wihtout a plan?
Possibly he has many,
he too could look upon-
look apon us below.
He might think
opposite thought,
Together,
why such?
Why not alone?
Happier we would be
if we were like he.
This was written nearly four years ago. I don't know what I was thinking.
