The frigid finch

I Silently sipping the last limping remains of wine
within the crumbling confines of my glass .
guiltlessly glistening in the amorous arms of evergreen.
Lonesomely , my eyes lift themselves
up from my blackened
blue brass bottle of bitterness
and gradually grows aware
of the arid aristocratic atmosphere.
Lustered with the luminous larks
who lurk within the numbing neon
nature of the iridescent nightlife.
But among these unfruitful flocks
feebly flutters the faint fanciful feathers of the frigid finch.

Who still sternly staggers his weakened way through the
world’s wishful
word woven woodlands of what if towards the eternally
terminal edge
of mortality.
In search of an answer
patiently perched upon the topic of
what light lingers within the relieving realms of truth.