No longer me to speak of
Now a cloud of swallows
None of them one of them
All of them me
Endless random calls
Feathers tickling breeze
Infinite bugs,
Berries and beaks
Unable to search
Unable to speak
Unlikely to perch
A mile a week
Perhaps less
I'm made of numbers
But can only guess
No longer me to speak of
This million birds in flight
Are the figures of my genes
Somehow more so than my life
Gathered thought falls
Too limited a means
Opinions offer no respite
And when time crawls
The grip of preference is tight
Choked into a lottery
Of birds that shriek and veer
Life scrawls and sprawls
But somehow I'm still here
Part of the formula is the bird that calls
"Somehow, I'll always be here"
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