Degenerate times

In this cell of isolation winter.
I keep walking – and singing
the morning to life.
Outside its wet dark, a single
cloud holds my pain.

I want to scream,
and let the soak come.
Making a thousand birds fly.
To tell of a voice unheard,
but not silenced.

Of a soul, full of butterflies
and fish – and kissed by love.
Now extracting fire and justice.
in these latter days.

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