Flightless birds.

Dreading their downfall.
A plunge into abyss.
They're running up a hill,
silence on their lips.

Covering their eyes.
Headphones on their ears.
They run from eldritch gods -
deep within their peers.

Ground trembles with pulse
of waves crushing the chalk.
Should one of them hear -
could they ever talk?

If approached by a dove,
seagull or a rook.
Should one of them ask -
could they ever look?

Each within their beak,
can smell the scent of salt.
(But-)should one of them stop -
would their descent start?

One thing they all learn,
(as-)they run with all their might:
Every time they try -
cruel is the night.

Like the hermit crabs,
wearing shells for clothes.
Anchored to a frame -
they're unaware they chose.

And so ignoring pain.
Losing hope and shoes.
Their wounds press deeper in -
with bitterness and booze.

Running up the slope.
Wishing to find bliss.
They run off of a cliff -
and plunge into abyss.