would they all scream my name,
when my soul is laid into a grave—
a name carved in vain,
as the dirt buries a bird—
a bird who no longer sang,
for all the harmonies lost their way;
in a haze,
in a maze,
in a daze,
in a craze,
caged,
de-feathered and of age,
a crave for the wastes,
with clipped wings and covered in sage—
a prayer was sang to weep its wage,
for the bird never was thanked,
despite all its duty and all its grace,
a messenger never asked,
what would you like to say?