The Starling landed on the sand,
A twitching head it tilted,
Towards old bill,
Wrinkled and weathered.
His old black hat
Ripped, stitched & feathered.
The Starling rested in his hand
Through time's fingers sand now wilted.

The iridescent silence
resides in every hole
Every nook, every branch, every absence
aware that it should know

That the silence should seek the silence
and dampen living sound
Exert its out numbering presence
and flush disturbance out

This is how the woods exist
in the mercury morning night
It is the one time of the day
when sound loses the fight

Everything moving is alien
a probe disturbing time
Everything uneased by nothing
an irrationally influenced mime

Then "until" is the gospel of life
until strings ignite the sound
When those fallen silent resume their strife
and until their movements resound

But under the velveteen mirror
under the soft grip of ice
Air becomes solid and trees shadow white
in the mercury morning night

I fail all the great writers and all the great speakers when I believe that my voice doesn't matter.
I fail myself when I put it in my mind that I'm incapable of change, change in myself and in the society.
I am a disgrace to myself when I let all the evil and vices consume me with their shallow darkness.
I am a sinner if I let one misdeed around me tip me off the edge.
I will be guilty when I let someone else's hostility towards me disturb my tranquility.

Yet I know I can be saved,
My mind is a weapon that's what I believe
It can be lethal or it can be a treat,
I have to shape it in a figure I please but that which does not get the better of me.
I am the savior and I am the destroyer of my own conscience.
I must have the faith and courage to face myself and that's when I will be ready to face the evil.

She, is that flower unopened,
in quieter moments,
she washes him clean,
a theme behind secrets
unspoken,
not of ether, nor clay,
but of somewhere between.

He, with his pallid complexion,
loves nothing of Earth,
even less of the air,
for all that are given
direction,
are places or houses
that she cannot share...

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu.
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught
Save where you are, how happy you make those.
    So true a fool is love that in your will,
    Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.