ExTempAura
I am stopped in mid-flight
by this bird of a feather light
lighter certainly than my
morning black coffee
drunken sullenly to the morning
dew drop. Dropped into
thin air by a lack of sense
for others of my feather
this is a past pretense
particle to a cell, a past
participle of my own
sense of being
the disciple of a teacher
without empathy for
the shattered bell.
Flap, flap flapping in the
air meandering as
aimless as the physical form.
My mind has wings and feathers
enough to disown my claim;
To hold the weather in disdain;
To put a bald eagle to flying shame.
All the same, a typical frame
broken and now tame,
hovels on the graves
of the defaced
spaced evenly by
an unsteady pace.
This is simply a matter of
saying grace.
You see I am light years
Ahead of the nearest
Eater of bread.
Lotus is my main fare,
Which may not seem fair,
to you, to me; and
between us two,
I’ve excluded all them too.
Copyright ©2008 Bogdan Ciochinaru