Waving with our battle swords,
glaring eyes a-washing a storm of
a brisk of a morning's bird-call,
If you are to die, I'm already dead.

Mama used to grip my arm
as I punched myself repeatedly ,
on my un breakable head
for being different and an alien,
in a world that appeared to be dead.

I'm alone to haunting piano recitals,
The gentle playing of the flute,
The soothing of an acoustic guitar,
The stirring of the bees of a violin.