They plugged a few feathers into my shoulders,
So I believed that I had wings.
Rich decorations on the surface,
But inside stuffed with dust and sins.
When the sun sets I'm getting closer
To all the traps and poking stings.
I'm a space object, somewhat gritty,
Sprouting new feathers in the snow,
Every sunbeam - cute and pretty
Sculpts smiles in yellow clay with a glow.
The fortune teller pours dark water,
I teeter like a tightrope walker.
I will not squander scraps of gladness,
Nor will I stop my joyful amblings.
You will emerge from clouds in blackness,
Write me a poem about Chaplin,
I'll bring the lilies, without asking,
Before I anchor back to sadness.
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