Hue

​Little birds I haven’t seen for

The longest time, 

Squabble at the periphery, 

Of this peaceful little square of life, 

Retained, and reinvigorated, 

Over and over again.

The history is dwarfed, 

In the context of the nature, 

In the confines of the greenery, 

And falling slates, 

Peeling paint, 

Who else could live here but something free, 

Like a bird, 

The bird, 

The thing I long to be.

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