With broken wings he tries to soar.
Wobbly, no altitude to gain.
The sky opens up, begins to pour.
He squawks and screeches,
lamenting his pain.
Seagull, pretty seagull,
you can fly.
Your mighty heart is hanging high.
You'll not give up, you keep trying.
Demise is lying.
Again, and again you get up and flap
your fractured wings.
Lifting inches from the ground, each
rain droplet clings.
Weighs you down; this is hard.
A shard is lodged in my soul,
watching your struggle of quiet dignity.
Up ahead, I see a crack of light come
to shine through the clouded wall.
Reaching for you, so you'll not fall.
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