Sestinas are really hard to write

I wrote this a few days ago- It's still on the first draft. We'll see how it goes.

Sweeping, blowing, underfed beneath the wings;

A deeply intricate feeling, given away in a swing.

A swing, a swig, a righteous break from rest

Leading to nothing but monotony nonetheless.

A lust, a love, alone among thousands

Unrequited, unabsolved, everything but grand.

Floating, fleeting, terrifying but grand,

I see such a landscape, passing ‘neath my wings.

A landscape, a landscape, views  by number in thousands

I comprehend nothing, I flee to the south with a swing

A swing of my thoughts turns to despair nonetheless

And even my flight will never give me my rest.

Here among the algae I am one with the rest.

Sun filters down, sun filters though, a grand

Representation of some act which nonetheless

Feeds a bad habit, cannot feed my wings

Long lost to pain, I cannot move; the swing

Of emotions is reduced to one, from numerous thousands

So many people and people and people! The thousands

Of millions of billions of weary and tired and those without rest.

Look to the children, neglected and hurt, so they swing in swings

Riding out childhood by dreaming, and being and thinking so grand.

Their emotions so free, so joyous and free! They are birds upon wing,

Looking down at their turmoil, their pain, and living nonetheless.

So many options, and regardless of my motives, I am nonetheless

Beaten down. My small problems are multiplied by thousands

And my shortly held freedom is ripped away, destroying my wings.

Undeniable suffering, I maintain some sort of semblance humanity for the rest,

Which are marginalized, demeaned, and stricken away from the grand

Interpretation of the world I once had, sitting in a swing.

I am destitute. Nothing exists. Everything exists. Children in swings.

I am alone. Dreams attack me, sleep evades me. And nonetheless,

I am hopeful. I am not helped by this thought. I used to grandly

Believe in a better day. I used to believe I was somehow above the thousands,

Above so many of the people surrounding me. Now I am laughed at by the rest.

I have no laughter; I have no joy; a mediocre shell remains of my body, my lost wings.

Children grandly sit in their swings, imagining themselves in a better place.

Their wings let them soar, their problems and worries below, but nonetheless,

There is always a seed of doubt, for every man knows he is one of thousands, just one of the rest.