{ sida a ; track four }
❝Petites neige-oiseaux volent des terres étrangères.❞
Drop out of the scene,
the wings on your back are b r o k e n.
It's ice mixed with blood,
a machinery malfunction,
that's disturbing your biology.
And morning dew birdsong
can't quench this thirst for f l i g h t.
There's grace in the landing,
but s o r r o w in the knife.
You're tagged & numbered,
caught mid-rib in a robbery
but we're all pale, l a n d l o c k e d.
YOU ARE READING
2/10
Short Story❝keep two eyes on ten fingers, there's a thief among us❞ { s c r a p s }
