El Canto del Pájaro

Fleeting feelings seek meaning for

Word count: 166

If I could sketch a canvas of a word scape,
every syllable so carefully crafted,
I'd strike gold on the fourth phoneme,
the prose might leave me laughed at.

I would dig a well of water to house
a love so deep that once it were fetched - beggar
leeching for a fix of generosity -
the act of construct would surely leave me wetter.

I should sing a canto bright, light, high, like a
pajaro soaring so the sun does also shine.
And maybe, were I so brass, my chest expand
with the winter wind blown down the shaft of a mine.

My intention is not gold, nor is it ether.
Constrained in the corner, seeking the rare
whistle of seven canaries: motivating
escape from the doldrum of daily despair.

You see, if a breath from the hole is the same
as a kiss at the lips. If a bright sun splash
means no different than a dropping of the bird;
I'd take it all for one second, just dash, dash

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