1. |
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2. |
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her eyes soar the treeline
some stillborn constellation
received no birthright
received no name
we gathered it up and combed its hair
broke the bones to fit just right
if each memento we keep is just as dead
what will we find to hold their memory
in that empty skull
rings a verse from the old story
broken bird singing to the sky
the dreamer must dream
I’ve never seen the end of this road
but I’m sure I’ve been there before, somewhere
so let’s thread the stars into a mantle
dim the lights and slip away
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3. |
Passerine
08:31
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the sky a blooming canticle
sings sweetly little bird
washing clean over the halls
from the pulpit of her perch
heavy serpent veil
low from a woodland arch
watery eyes spellbind from a slit
not weeping but stirred
with stillness like an ember
every bitter thing disgorge
a crack and she’s ensnared
just a drip for the serpent’s thirst
adder wrapped and clung tight
caves in to a humming dirge
with her last breath squeezed out
she’ll harmonize the first
for what sin sick hand could they play
in the drawing of their birth
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