My face surveys eagerly.
Blowing my meager Gale.
Whispering wind would fill no sails.
Heat is risen, and trapped.
My masters room holds many things.
My master holds too few.
He lies atop his castle keep.
Kept awake, evading sleep.
My owls glance, dances in the night.
Offers little respite.
My master plans an upgrade for his humble servant.
One that will not squawk.
One that fixes his gaze.
One whose lungs could stun a cloud of starlings.
I hope I am relieved of my post and am still able to see my master.
Maybe I'll retire to higher climbs.
Or be tucked away to await the day his new admirer becomes weak.
Maybe I'll seek another master, and stir the stifled air in anothers kingdom.
Though today and through tonight, I stand sentry and strong.
I sing him to sleep, proud.
With my feeble lungs.
