An ode to Futile Love

High on the euphoria of Chance, Hope

A dream, the little Byrd charged onwards.

And his persistence, wistfulness, idiosyncracies:

Charming as can be.

The flutter of one's center-stone, upon the razor

treelines, upon abreast he saw

mediocrity

immorality, and certain futility.

A sigh, a cry, and a let go, all at once.

And an Ode for the poor young sparrow,

Icarus-like, he flew too high, too much

Too hopeful. To expect disappointment,

a motto he now lived by.

So we pray for such young sparrows,

may the wax hold,

through night, sun, and the sea.

And may love find wherever you are,

wherever love is to be.