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Sorrow's Flightless Marathon In Black.

Updated on November 7, 2009

Once fluffy white

feathers preened daily,
water resistant and

lovely to behold,
Now send my beak

agape at the horror
of my toil in the oils,

from the spoils of man.

Just an ordinary dive

for a plump fish,
and suddenly I am

a lump of living coal,
eyes blurred beyond

any ability to see predators,
wings mired, I am a crippled

land creature now.

Reeking of a scent

to noxious to breathe,
far from the water

lest it mirror my plight,
just days from dying

in the baking sun,
where I will become

rigid, and squat.

Another tragic twenty-first

century monument
to all the cars that slow

 down as they drive by,
powered by the essence

of what has slain me,
a black spot marring t

he sands of time,
a cancer quite palpable

on the shores of my homeland.




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