I Made a Lot of Mistakes

Feathered flutter hovers over hollow mounds.

All things stay.

All things change.

Outstretched wingspan blustered over golfing grounds.

Drive away.

Hunting range.

Sunlight from Atlantic's reflection blinding.

All things stay.

All things change.

Overheard phonecalls of dejection finding.

Work away.

Rearrange.

An Avalanche

The aberration of comfort is such

that pain becomes a remedy for angst,

irrational counters irrational

and I can see all my flaws with disdain.

It's as though observing an avalanche

with fond memories stored at the apex

and though safe in the knowledge that I'm safe

I get the stuttering sense to absond.

But do I flee from the danger I fear

or fly towards that which I'm set to lose;

how will I know that which I already know

if I'm concerned with how instead of why?

In indecision, I'm buried by snow

but I feel no fear with my skin aglow.

Point of Migration

Morning mist blooms in a murmuration

that swoops between pastures seen from afar

and folds in its own fickle furation

both passing and ent'ring the window ajar.

I can barely fathom the fog's flirtation

for those who flock cannot see where they are

until I watch you break through the flocculation -

a morning fog broke by my morning star.

And the rays catch a golden elation

that glitters and dances like those birds alar

and having found the point of migration

we sail off into the sunset cinnabar.

No longer concerned by the follies of mist

but welcoming warmth where our wings have kissed.