What might you have been?
Grown up, what might you have become,
your ochres, pinks and greens?
A soarer of the skies? A songster? Fa!
Some kind of bunting?
In this neighborhood, I doubt it.
Liklier another irid thief
calling its shriek a song:
on the chops of the Spring
busily stuffing its crop.
But pity, please,
its our human duty to bewail
all lost potential
if only for a sec,
if we the same expect.
So, so long, little hatchling
off the rail brushed in a heartbeat
to rot amid the tares below-
the fare of crows-
for what more can we do?
Little morsel, so long.
Nothing will ever set you
back on your perch
or pry your mouth open in song.
Godspeed. It's a long ways down.
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Comments about this poem (Hatchling II by Morgan Michaels )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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