So many attempts to fly
Wings cast aside time and again
White and waiting hopefully
Like the simple words of the wren
Some attempts sopped up tears
In feathery branching out of wings
Crushed by the blackest boulders
Still even the crow sometimes sings
Standing up curved to the sky (or ceiling)
Ready to start the failure to fall
Success is how the end should be feeling
Embracing what remains of it all
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