The sights of a man.

The sights of a man.

With a stride pacing with force,

Yet slender and calm at the moment,

Hushes in and grabs a sit,

A nearby sit, I am not used to.

And with this sway of grace,

Deep inside little pickle berries,

Sour but sweet, at different parts,

Silent by time, noisy when needed.

What dwells in the life chamber,

None knows, sometimes a flicker,

And a spark glitters calling up a smile,

But then, silence is a name, not knowing anything.

Far across the doves fly,

In search of a place to nest and to settle,

It could be like this analogy,

Only it sounds different, a quiet nest.

Where rainbows colour unicorns,

And stars decorate the modern apes,

Comes a jewel so bright, sparkling like a firework,

Only to keep its value unknown, un-owned.

Like a nest, a bird that lays, and soon leaves with her young,

This place is not a permanent residence,

But what tickles me is a nest that is empty,

A bird, no eggs, no young, no life.

And somehow, with this pace of pride,

The gooseberries, the silence, the little smile,

The firework and the empty nest,

Comes a bird equally made from the heavens above.