Swifts spin like bullets,
Shot from a rifled barrel gun.
They reach the apex of their climbing
Before falling from the Sun.
Unlike Icarus, they never stop flying,
Hunting, sleeping on the wing,
Stuffing
Gnats and mosquitoes into their gullets,
Yet, still, they find the time to sing.
YOU ARE READING
Scribblings
ПоэзияWords arranged in a funny order. Poems about my view of reality and how my inner fantasy world colours it with strange tinges. I love discussions about concepts and ideas so please feel free to comment. © 2018 Brian Lynch
