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.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 6:55 PM UTC
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.