World of vibrant colours,

inside the open ended bottle,

which is looking glorious from afar,

but isn't it another throttle?

Throttle against their own existence,

stranger amidst the known,

encircling like crazy dancers,

but all ready to mourn?

Every colour is fighting,

their own damn battle,

feeling of lone wolf,

amidst the field full of cattle.

Yes, flying in flock is fun,

giving sense of home like nest,

but the battle of chick,

is like survival of the fittest.

Although sky is pink,

and ground is blue,

enjoying the solo flight,

will be rejoiceful like dew.