Friend

I’m afraid my wings have frayed a bit, torn by unexpected teeth, whipped by winds and thinned by age… I’m not what you recall,

But then you’re flying lower too, your once fine feathers storm-bedraggled, a slow sad note beneath your song… yes, we bear marks of the fall

but spread your wings, I’ll see you home if you’ll sing songs on the way, just two old tattered battered friends, undaunted by it all.