A homeless drifter, torn yet proud,
Hanging on a bough, upside down;
Swaying on an arid sync,
With each blow of the morning breeze.
Tired, but he must go,
In search of his last turn
That may no one knows.

Fascinating the azure sky, he's all pale yet red,
Bearing his pride and fall, all at once,
Trimmed with glitters, he vowed to not fade;
Not even a single tear that he has ever shed.

He's travelled far for so long,
With winter, sun and winds, so strong;
Seen enough love, joy, betrayal and death;
He's known how they all love to hate;
And lowly he says, "You hypocrites!
I can't even stand to be in your sights!"

He's a loner, furbelowed with revolting scars,
Cut off long ago, from the one who made him with love;
Once used to be held up high in the narcissistic sky,
The same one, he's resenting now for his ceaseless sighs!

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A/N: It's about a wayward kite; a window sight imagination of my mind.