By halfsweet song of winsome Spring, one blooms,
and unfurls pearled wings to the timshel’d skies,
A light divine — in reverie, one flies!
But a wayward gust strips a ruffled plume,
and the fear of demise takes hold, consumes,
the whistling wind whispers that you’re a lie,
that you’re naught but roach in a shallow guise,
and the heights you seek only end in ruin.
To the dirt you belong, not sky, nor tree,
and whispers turn truth in one’s own esteem,
but solace does lie in the certainty!
Hide from the light, enjoy filth’s regime!
And through one’s beady eyes, though beetled be,
this life still does seem a Beauty supreme.