Fly, little bird...

paint your wings black and grey...never be another's prey...

if they think you're made of iron maybe they won't shoot you down...

the ground is safest, but your tastes are too sophisticated for the fog...and you know the clouds taste so much better..

Sing, little bird...

ignore the worms below...to the stars your song shall go...

only an astral audience becomes you...allow those beneath you to be with themselves, as that is their preference...

though the celestial bodies may seem out of reach, let the light of your melody span the galaxy...

Cry, little bird...

like raindrops will you weep...maybe then your heart may sleep...

as the moisture overtakes you, do not fear its presence; allow it to drown the anguish which may be engendered through flight and song...

wash away the black and grey..