It is by now that moment of my life
that time, when autumn nearly passed
and frost is hanging heavily on the boughs.
I tell you my dear to give in me your trust
to look upon me as in time of spring
in survival of a trembling grace,
but with gentle sorrows possessed
in my heart.

I am a sore filled being, a winged bird
always on my way, but again and again
fastened in the net of the same guardian,
refuse to wither in some wicker cages
I rather struggle and lose some feathers
and pacing forth in tiny moments
until judgement of myself arise.

So, I ask you to seal my wings
to follow the streak of my existence.
To capture me in my wounds
of my inherent ennui, my perpetual dullness
that will be drowned in the ocean,
and you yourself may privilege this moment
taking some straws from the sand
and fly on it, in the wind to Spring.

November 2017 ©k.c.