Let The Eagle Dead End

One night ago, the bird made of blackened feathers to fly so high, it'll fly soothingly in an opened dark orange lookalike skyline, he landed some littlest graveyard cemetery into the creepiest woods, he looks up the dead-ended like the blended trees hanging down in thread, all the bread crumbs everywhere next to the owners tombstone standing still and will, went on top the legend uptight hill, in a wrong turn section trail, be unsure the ingrown nail should be sharper and sharpest, do not stepped on it, or else to get hurt, the eagle who never went on the pokey pine tree-like that

Written by
Michael James Brindley
7-29-19