Cramping legds their crying
Like the babes, lying
In their mothers' arms
What are the charms

Which parents ensnare
Like poisonous air
Be witched to reproduce
Nature's silent truce

Though you die you can live
Vicariously and give
What makes you, you
To another imbue

The train halts brakes squealing
Interlocking carriages feeling
Each other and the air
Signal lights stare

And the track opens up before us

I am girl who sits on the bottom step of the stair
At parties
Who no-one knows how I got there
The girl who passes up conversation
The girl who twists her hair around her thumb
Then puts it in her silent mouth

I am the girl who gets passed by
Plain hair and plain eyes
I am the girl who lives for tomorrow
Who sees the stars as they are

When I came in that night I found
Only rembantsHed strewn around
He'd fled and left me behind
On pretence: "needed to unwind"

Trembling sideways
The flower in the breeze
No fear of uprooting

My four orbiting stars
You are my everything
When times are hard you
Shine on

When times are dark you
Raise the curtain

When I am alone
You speak to me
My family
My everything

A visible shroud, all over me it says JOY.
In the crypt of a vampire, immense, hoisted bat entrails.
It's a kite, he is making, the wind wants to feel it.
The wind likes to move about, implore.
Prevailing winds, guide the rope's direction.

I strove for freedom more than before, forgot limits,
Now the kite can fly beyond the night, it will be jealous,
High above, in the sky, untouched by evil pride.
I am not soft hearted, prone to emphatic shivers,
But in a thousand pieces I hear every sound.

I love this earth and am reminded by the sights below,
All the birds of various descriptions, fly too,
those feather fingered sisters, they are often in pain,
Like farmers milling the sky underwing.

A cloud is a wall, then a room of purest white,
On fly the birds and on flies the kite,
On many lands falls our shade, life is below,
Now is the time to be soft hearted, swirl in torrents.

In all the days and ages gone by,
    How do we record the time,
It seems therein hereof to fly,
    And freezes, only embossed in rhyme.
To live forever and plus that day,
    Is not so impossible in truth,
Though we can scarce predict our own way,
    Angels write our lives for flute.
Envy will these tales incur,
    Such that the future long for past,
And we, the passed, lie demure,
    Dice of present lying cast.
Toward an even field of life,
In tomes that, to a word, all strife.