Soul, don't slip through that windpipe
Soul, hang on even if it be on thorns
Though you bleed to find tomorrow
Angels, fledge his soul from the wind
For wind flies the wingless
Scatters seeds of men
Shakes marrows of old

When time draws close
Feathers on the quill sway
Feel of hair on the heads numb
and the bald heads run cold
Colored spots in eyes cloud

For wind flies the wingless
Shakes off hands of clocks
Skins crease to dry dates
You dither you wither
Then you realize
Those myths
are true stories, that grew weak

14th December 2023