Bliss, a very distant word,
A broken wingless bird,
Lying across the curb,
As he rots in the dirt.
As he sees the hawks above,
Among them is his dove,
As in northern lights they dance,
He can't get her out of trance.
In hell and heaven at once,
This is how he really guns,
In feelings of a lost-in-love,
Realizing he has lost the dove.
In the open sky of panthers,
Who yawn their con on her,
But he just lies and dies in care,
Of lord who laughs in his lair.
Light will vacuum out his thoughts,
As these highlighted will turn lines and dots.
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