Bird of Rosacea

The milk we knew was sour,
It was never even sipped.
Rosacea; cracked and dour;
Baby bird mouthed; needy lipped.
You gave the bird no option,
To do it by themselves,
For support had had no gumption,
In helping you help yourself.

As the tiny baby bird grew;
Shy, awkward, misunderstood,
Her youthful wings were clipped,
By the sick, progressed through mud.
They flew and left the nest,
To escape the fat cuckoo,
The birdsong mute at best.
Unanswered, what to do?

But the little chick had grown,
Into the one you see,
When she flew the sickened home,
Unsupported; what would be?
Whatever was slung and thrown;
It fell from tattered plume.
So do you see that had grown?
Beyond the sick catacomb.

She dances and sings sweet freedom,
And laughs and loves with heart.
Her escape had found the Kingdom,
Against the guns; poisoned dart.
For the bird still flies alone and free,
And will not be stopped nor crossed,
The wings extend long, you see,
The Bird of Rosa - Albatross.