This Ire Life
My ire life is morbid.
I need to keep myself from dwelling in the past and continue forward.
I am a winter owl inhabiting a damaged branch of this beautiful tree of oak.
To fly away, I will never cancel my continuous evoke.
I am surviving on the wretchedness existing in my sensitive flesh.
Making my mind all-a-mesh.
These wings of mine are pinned to my delicate chest.
The strength they contain are plainly not the best.
I am in dire need of retrieval.
From these demons dominating my weak mind, they are eternally evil.
Revive me before it’s too late.
Or have this lonely life be my infinite fate.
