Poet#10 - "the Fox"

His face has been flown like a flag
Forever a field of feathers,
Floating towards it
For fourteen fleeting years,
He flounders,
Feeling, faintly, his gaze falls short.

Forcing his feet forward,
Finding his flight forlorn,
Faster, he fights the phantoms,
The fury of a forgotten boy
Fumbling for a foothold.
A flurry of flesh and fingers,
First is so far from his
Faithless frame.
It follows that, in feast or famine,
A photo finish is flawed;
Falter or fade
And the favour has changed.

The footpath is neither flat nor firm,
So he fosters this fire
And forms that form,
Foments in flames,
Festers with fear,
Until the foreground
Frees him of fright,
Fool’s gold shines bright,
But ferments the sight.

Foundation found,
Fixtures of fate,
No longer the fledgling,
He flows forth,
Full of the future,
Of familiarity,
Fresh and festive,
A fox of the night

The End

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