a wing of composure sings..

heart says, it is pure and rough;
broken along the alleys and the trough.

how i wonder what happens across,
every time, there occurs a pause;
radiates the open sky, thine wisdom dear Lord.
how i wonder, what is mine and what is not.

all along the valley and the slope,
i witness standing at the galleries non stop;
as flows the water, down into the river bed,
i have noticed how my life took a level far ahead,
to walk and fall, carrying the withered rose,
as the sun rises, so does rise my clause;
that life is rich, it is barren,
that life is real, yet is a tester of the den.

whatever i have is mine, or is it;
that whatever i had was mine, now is hit;
with the waves, and the storms;
how i wonder, life is done with the norms.

no more celebration exists,
life in boots of weakness buzzes;
only if on the destiny did sit,
such a warm intent, undone of grudges.
could the butterfly once again sit,
until its dismissal through the ledges.
there would be a reason in it's solid wings,
to flap and rock and band a sling;
yet it didn't know that the wings,
were capable enough to be hurt and not fly, or sing;
still, it believed that the life would yet one day win.

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