Unfurled at the chest, I await my song unto a phantom light, contained in alien walls. I rest,

Palm at a sight and scowl at how it rhymes with true.
Wrong churns a bleaker clarity that owes me pennies and pathetic fallacy,

For I stand level with a crow. His wings
are at the oaken cusp and slowly, slowly, slow,
a perch unravels for his tiny hands. Forgive me

Camphor, Locust, Pine I must.