A Small Bird Of Loneliness Poem by Peter S. Quinn

A small bird of loneliness is flying
Through desolate and the many grasslands
Lightless color the ways one understands
When some true heart is there trying
Feelings blue shores the clouds crying
All from inside the heart truly commands
The songs from terrestrial leavens wastelands
Feelings the grass every color drying

Waters that those alone know like perfume
Surrounded and enchained to its foams
Velvets of vet fallen prairies dark flume
Dryness of bleak gloomy earthly chromes
Every inner murky wearied small bloom
Alone structured stamens the roots and domes