Wing'd creatures must abandon ground, and leave Earthbounds behind... They turn away from the wingless They look instead to those who fly. For the wingèd, the sky. And above them, sunrise. Chthonian Creatures cannot fly!
Although 'tis dawn, it's dark In the midst of crowds I stand Written out of the drama My story rewritten in sand The footprints on the beach Where I helped to bear the load Are washed away come morning Forgotten like a toad Wings do beat in evening sky Flying up to the Sun The tired rabbit turns away Back down into his run The flyers dance so joyfully In lingering light above Catching the shining rays of light Following the Sun Crossing to the other side where other flyers wait The rabbit is back underground, sans comfort and sans mate. He wonders if they think of him, who only did his best But stumbled badly launching A flyer from the nest. Winged creatures are quite heavy A breaking load to bear But rabbits must be left behind To get up into air... Dragons, butterflies, and bees... I wonder if they think of me A rabbit far across the seas.
The trees will sometimes talk with me Each has a story, don't you see Some stand up tall, and some are small On some the vines do cast a pall They struggle fiercely to survive And if they can, they'll fiercely thrive And seek and find the Sun and air As they climb a skyward stair.
The band played well No one to tell This emptiness can feel like hell. Abandoned on a lonesome sea Drinking my last cup of tea The pot is full, too much is there For here's no one with whom to share So many news Must be unsaid Except perhaps when we are dead. To be alone is harder still When loneliness was banished 'til It all came rushing back like tides Left behind, I cannot hide The fact that emptiness is where Once I had such cheer.
The band played well. But no one cares... Music cases hauled upstairs. People trying to make dreams With sweat and blood and reams Of set lists and of lyrics fine And no one has more than a dime. We make the sounds, oft crude or crass And sometimes we smoke grass.
I try to write my verses They never come out right. I do not use the AI To set my words down right. I am left so far behind By creators left and right. Their verses so much better Than anything I write. All I have is doggerel That's lost amongst the weeds The flashy AI produced stuff Is what they want to read. So I sit back, left far behind, the crippled child of woe. The Piper Pied leads others on To magic lands And golden sands That's where they all do go.
I'm trying to write a poem. It's taking quite the time. I'm wrestling with every word, re-reading every line. One of my great problems is, it's tough to make it rhyme.
The Butterfly returns Wings stronger than before The tall impressive barriers Have now become mere doors Joyful in her strength Free flier dancing with a bee Dipping diving dancing freely High above the sea.
