A small faded grey wisp,

Of a moth desperately clinging on.

To the stained windowpane for dearest life,

While the sun’s glaring rays wear it down.

The engine roars like an urban jungle cat,

Edgily jerking forward, bit by bit.

Increased speed equals terror,

For frail wisps rarely survive long.

 

Flags flapping against heavy gusts of wind,

As if one was struggling to breathe underwater.

Desperately blowing noisy bubbles,

To avoid a drowning doom through flailing.

Heavy limbs gazing as weary eyes glazed,

Till surroundings from the surface above

Became but haze from a mad, flurry daze.

Varna

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