In the beginning was blood and fire

The thorn was chosen because it knew

Every morning was the whistling of sweet sounds

In all this, there was an open scar the feathers covered.

 

Time was shaped with its misfortunes

The ridged edges of its existence had been exposed

The sweet sounds faded, as the scars were poked over again

When skin became its clothing, it was nothing but ugliness.

 

Then reality spoke for itself with nothing to hold back

What it gave all for, plunged it deeper into the thorns

The image of selfishness was engraved on its feathers

Alas, thorns and scars are the clothing of the ugly bird void of feathers.

:pohbdpoet

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