The bird had forgotten that it had wings,
And rememered only that the fall could crush him.
He remembered that the rocks were sharp,
And nothing could daunt their merciless resolve..
Although he longed for the sun, his fear of the rocks kept him perched,
In a world he neither recognized, or adapted to.
His youth slipped away, staring at the sun,
Walking amongst the remains of his pointless life.
Fate had betrayed him!
He had no wings with which to fly!
For all his hate, he never looked to his sides,
To see his beautiful feathers in line.
And so, the years passed, and he felt little in his chest,
Aside from the ache of longing, and loneliness.
None ever passed, and thus none ever payed him respects,
And finally, the bird died, and fell out of his nest.
Falling farther from the sun,
Fodder to what he had always feared.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Vita, in the year 465 AD.