FRESH LIKE THE LEMON SEA—rattled to the point the bird could sing no more, it’s lungs out of hope, it’s heart out of breath in which it had beat no more.
And which it had been apart. Apart from its soulmate in dire need for the bird the set it’s blue winds, to ride the winds, which was a stormy array.
And yet, everything around him would seem like a desert—the berries laid were blood-like, colored and plump, it was everything he had desired for. Mourned for; wished for in every urgent need.
Yet, his lover, a bird whose would fly days to find him, he had to retreat.
Because, a man whose bird needed to lead a family. Yet, whose was not sure if he would make it out of the storm, it was ever too cold.
Oh, how would the bird ever conform his resurgence? He didn’t want to be away from his shining lover, whose songs were draw him back to his nest, that had laid below the berry tree.
Oh, dear me!
Of course, his wings were frozen, a statue they were. His eyes closed shut, and his midnight black beak quivered.
He was indeed perfect dinner.
