/lit/ - Literature

>>7083568
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Clay Birds with, thoughts, unhinged,
Delude themselves;
Feigning for a less malleable existence.
for when time, sun, or night
colors their niche into darwinistic semblance.
They will seclude themselves,
trading affordable lives traded for constitutions
bought by mild cognizance,
wrought from a collusion's entrance.
Watching humans, unaware of their individually sculpted hells.
A criminally mundane sight,
Empathetic skin dwells,
stretched over their graying eyelids; extracting no insight.
Feeding off soils
No need to worry if the confinement's done right.
Or doubt the metaphors
thorny patches hold. Scales fall, capacity grows,
Discovering the Sublime, too,
are wrung to be polite.
The scales don't fall. The fever dream
Remains just a
prelude to empty shelves,
It stalls, and starts to fall apart at all the seams
But everyone's happy;
And that's one of the reasons they delude themselves,
it seems

I wrote it for my intro level creative writing class where we had to include some words: Time, night, sun, Clay, birds, ford,