the songs in winds

dissolve into rudiments
a force that controls, and a hope that lingers
stuck in the gums
a mouth cancer to be washed out upon whisky, fire, and spit
every chance i had lost

and upon her visage
much like the feather in the breeze
they are so much more beautiful dancing with the wind and her dreams
other than the settled foundation in the grass
perhaps i just learned what they always knew

and upon a callous society
the spiritual hind of an elephant wrapped around the tender fear
it is so easy to be afraid of something real
this is not a chance or trivium
this has been planned

and as us, the leaves, the feather, the loves, the losses travel
in this mother’s cursed twirling breaths
the songs of the bourgeois have been sung since we descended
and as we destroy our loves out loud and sing these melodies
i lie still, holding on, and quietly humming, of an unknown, unheard timbre, till i know it is safe to sing aloud.

if you forget this nightingale love, you never knew it…