An ominous bubbling is boiling unphraseable,
knotting and twisting and rotting, untraceable,
questioning, beckoning, panting, unfaceable,
asking me am I mature.

I answer within myself “No. But I want to be.
Spread these bald winglets and soar to infinity!
Retch up this mush that’s already been chewed for me!
LIVE!  Not just merely endure.”

That bubbling something that comes in the spring-time-love
poisoning, deadening, eating the joy thereof
brings me to nest-side at 1000 foot cliff-tops (shove)
daring to prove adulthood.

Now, half way down, flightless, the rocks rushing up at me,
flapping bare twig-wings as if I believe in me,
bubbling stopping, one clear thought occurs to me.
Feathers will do me no good.

For, never were feathered things needed for happpiness.
Bald, twiggy things are what make a nest happy nest.
Feathers bring bubblings leaving twigs more distressed.
STAYINTHENEST!
 TooLate.
splat