For some time now,
these winter months

have been stuck on repeat:
like warped records, skipping and slurring beats.

Icy needles across my skin:
making me hum, making me sing.

I'm tired of seeing them,
in coffeee shops, and on adjacent streets.

These apparitions, these ghosts, and these souls
behaving like chimneys, billowing out of exhausted throats.

I need these stems, I need these seeds
to awaken, to grow, with purpose through the concrete

reclaiming the land back from Neitsche,
his cruel men, and his frigid industry.

Because for some time now, for far too long,
i have missed the birds and their living song

calling their silence an intermission
tho not visible, not entirely gone.

i will meet them on branches
high up, if and when they return.

Because almost all the time now
i have missed them like angels waiting for G-d.

Burning like leaves, candles in the Sun
pressing pen to paper, and naming each one:

some Bold, some Free,
some Golden, some Harmony.

Because for far too long now
i've interpreted, i've examined the question.

Asking myself, 'why play only one? why play just one?'
stringing notes together in one crisp strum.

And now, this morning, not playing for money,
but playing for warmth.

I am rekindled,
I am up at dawn,

and I am calling out for the Sun.

There is dusk
twisted

and circling
through the air,

as western mountains
devoured a Sol,

boiling blood:
impure, but thick with hopes.

Singing dog songs upwards:
the unrequited lunatic.

Pulled to you
like a current,

coming close
but never touching;

(i ache like the sea.)
or heavy stones sinking-

Find me, i'm Septentrio
and you're Eurynome:

and what was waiting to hatch,
has already been born.

Carving up Chaos,
to make my home.