I fly freely betwixt the cottons,
peacocks brush feathers like taffeta,
fringes flailing by the cool wind,
a glory of pink on my slender frame.
Alighting under a peaceful roof,
listening I the rustling of dry flakes,
nipping onto sincere and grateful palms,
an innocent smile on a silly lad.
I fall into a cozy and black pore,
I hear the bellow and the bustle,
eluding from a boastful brow,
I am confused in detesting agony,
or detesting fulsome friend.
I fly over fluffy and dark blanket,
rafting along a doomy breeze,
my fringe hanging on a beech,
a prodding branch cut my soul.
I fly freely betwixt the cottons,
I made the melancholy lad smile ,
I made the chums embattle,
waving into a heap of shame
a glory of pink on my incomplete frame.