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The Folly of Man for Birds

Oh, to be a bird and fly!
soaring above mortal toil,
Fleeing in altitudes-
the gravity of the mundane
escaping the grinding down
of a measured life,
What chance of flight now,
thirty five summers
then consumed of dust
Pslam 39:4
LORD, make me to know mine end,
and the measure of my days,
what it is; that I may know how frail I am.

14 Nov 17

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Don't we all just want to fly? Whether to the heavens or to heaven? Perhaps to see the world from a different view, to just rise above it's ways that are bitter? It could be why we envisioned angels with wings.

The structure of your poem builds nicely from opening declaration to utter conclusion. A definite synchronicity. I'd love to see you expand more upon the happenings and feelings along journey between the beginning of fly and the consumption. :)
 — lyrycsyntyme