If spring draws the earth
in golden streaks of life,
I long to hear
the songs of the bluejay.
I long to hear anything.
For all I hear when you open
your mouth
is a chime of chide
and the rustle of grit:
the grinding of your
restless heart
so full of
hate.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
If spring draws the earth
in golden streaks of life,
I long to hear
the songs of the bluejay.
I long to hear anything.
For all I hear when you open
your mouth
is a chime of chide
and the rustle of grit:
the grinding of your
restless heart
so full of
hate.
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