The mockingbird takes its time in preparation.
It sings its little heart out with borrowed tunes.

Tumult is the only way to describe it.
The burgeoning crisis that resolves itself
if only you can relinquish its pound pound pound.

Where in the world is there a break? Is a break even real?
There’s no stopping the life cycle, there’s no stopping
the turbulent reaches of inner existence.
Where does fancifulness let you off? Will it?
No questions can be answered in two words.

Two words have the floor. Two words take the cake.
Two words steal the bread and feed their family.
Two words fight and scream until they’re black and blue.

How can a sparrow fly for so long? It beats its wings too hard.
Wouldn’t it just be easier to divebomb the pavement?
It must consider that alternative sometimes.

If there are indeed answers, they don’t come often.
They present themselves from a distance, in a sunset.

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