Slowly, slowly. . . Thrice-told tales
Are often those which stay with us
To haunt our dreams with milky colors
Of empty eyes and frozen tongues.
Rip the bandage from my skin
And blood begins to pour again,
Why must you twist this broken bird
Beyond all recognition?
Instead, I beg, go gently, slowly,
Help me breathe with mouth-to-mouth;
With your frozen tongue, tell stories
To my dreamless, empty eyes.