I wish I was a bird
so I could fly
far.
Far away from here at least.
I can nearly feel the wind
blowing against my skin.
The sky turns towards the east.

Around my head
wraps a cloud,
protecting me from the words of grief.
Quite the shroud.

I land on the ground,
a field of wheat.
It blows me away
with enormous deceit.

The sky is the only good place to be,
I wish I was a bird.