Hope is the thing
with feathers
Reality is the hunter’s gun
That takes aim at your soul
And never stops at all,And sweetest in the travail
that bird
And soonest shot through the heart
It never looked like living
And it cannot keep you warm.
A fly buzzed when
it died
Carrion attracts such notice.
I had a crumb to offer it
But all too late to matter.
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