Freckled Finch

A freckled finch chirps from behind the callous layers in my heart, 
and it gives me such a feeling
that I wish she’d take me with her when she flies.

Whiskey, a quality poison, breaches my beak and does it’s work until my head spins dizzy. 

I feel like I might fall.

Maybe I’ll learn to fly on the way down.

Yes, but some birds never learn to fly do they?  

I’ll sing instead, sing like a bird with drunken deformed wings fallen from the nest. Hymns of you sung to heaven from hells gate. 

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