Roving Ransom

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.