As I Ponder my Solitude, the Eagle Dies.

It is quite sad.

I feel odd,
and solitary like
a dying,
once-proud eagle.

He once stood brave and proud, with wings
that scooped
up the heavens themselves.

A whole, spacious world,
with mountains and rivers
--a little bit chilly, but steadfastly beautiful--

existed under his feathers.

The eagle was always alone, however,
with the aforementioned universe seen from a birds-eye view.

He never came down to Earth.
I guess it was just fate, or cold feet
that willed him to remain apart.

It is quite sad.

Because the eagle is finally
dy-
ing,
after all these lone years,
dying all alone
(as custom for
this troubled one),

on the steepest of precipices
high above the world
of normalcy, one
of envious quality.