There are no knights in shining armour this days. Only small, fragile creatures that flutter by and sip the juicier parts of bushes in bloom. Too fleet for capture, they refuse to rein in their drunken flight and pause only to shed the sad little seeds of a marriage that lasted for but a long, brief moment.
There's no magic left in the night. No cause for celebration, just pangs of regret. Hang down your head, close your wings and look deep into the darkness. For there's no telling what fresh dread the day may bring in this season of clouds and stormy weather. What difference does it make to be hurt again, when old wounds will not heal and each night is a doze of dreams that descends into method and madness?
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