In the cradle of my fragile nest I lie.
A tiny pigeon with a gleam of hope in my eye.
Each Thursday dawns with promise, then fades to gray.
As my kin drift away, leaving me to sway.

My parents’ wings once shielded me tight.
Now they drift away into the night.
Leaving me hungry, not just for food,
But for the love that once filled my head.

Their absence cuts deep like a winter wind.
A silence so loud, where love should have been.
I watch the skies, waiting, longing, forlorn.
For a touch, a whisper, a promise reborn.

From dawn’s first light till wednesday evening’s close.
The world feels colder as hope dissolves.
No crumbs to nourish my belly’s plea.
No new knowledge to feed my brain.
No song to lift my spirits free.

Thursdays mark the quiet decay.
Of joy, of trust, of yesterday.
And in this loneliness, I see so clear.
The absence of care eclipses my fear.

Yet in my heart, a flicker still glows.
A whisper that someday, someone knows.
That even in abandonment’s rain.
Hope can bloom through sorrow’s pain.

Yet in this loneliness, a spark remains.
A whisper of strength amid the pains.
For even in shadows, hope softly sings.
Someday I’ll spread my wings and find new springs.

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