29 September 2012

I creepy glide through the midnight sky,

To my nest made of oak sticks,

As I fly across the calm air,

I slowly make it wild as I pass,

My golden wings make the sun seem like a dying torch,

As I land on my high nest,

The twigs rapidly rustle,

My wings smash agents the rough wind,

I scream,

At the fear of death.

JessicaRCPheonix • Opuss № I