Dust


Long for a woman
and solitude be a vicious
beast.
Let man to himself.
Let him to thoughts
of freedom.
Let him to whim, wings
and his ambition,
eventually he finds the bottom.
Eventually he sees the depth
and the loneliness.

How I love the freedom
and the angst.
The terror I aim to cause,
and the flirtation of open arms.
But oh, the malarkey of the moth
in his stale warehouse.
Free to fly about and
find the dissatisfaction in dust.
How I love my wings
but hate the taste of
dust.

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