“Perhaps Hope Was Never a Feathered Thing”
Perhaps hope was never a feathered thing
and that the summer gale was never sweet,
perhaps the raven could no longer sing
and was left to bleed, buried in defeat.
Perhaps the dove could not perch in my soul
or that the storm swiftly cast her away,
perhaps her melody was never whole —
or within my voice, it could never stay.
Perhaps the sparrow could no longer live
yet her sacrifice was hastened in vain,
perhaps her heart they could never forgive —
and thus, I will never forget her pain.
But I rise as a fowl with fiery eyes
and wayward foes will not silence my cries.
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