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The Flight
by
Chris Potts
Swiftly buzzing
O’er blades of grass.
Bobbing, weaving, dipping low;
Searching for some place to go.
It matters not for I am free.
The wind is at my back.
Wings soon tire;
Hunger comes.
But wait, what’s this I see?
Sustenance appears to me!
I slowly wander toward the source;
That glorious river of life!
As I alight upon its face,
Oh that thing of giant race!
It notices my plight for food,
Yet seems to be of violent mood.
A sudden whoosh
And clap of thunder
Quickly ends my plot for plunder.
Darkness swiftly closes ‘round,
The darkness which to me is death.
I feel no hunger, hear no sound.
I find sweet bliss in final breath
And tremendous loss of blood.
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