I can't fit
in your
pocket,
that kind
of love
is too
much.
Such a
dreamy
coffin,
when all
I wanted
was
your
touch.

The little bird no longer flies
she sits and mourns her broken wings
her tattered feathers, faded now
will never feel the breath of spring.

She sings now for the life she lost
a silent sweet lament
such sad refrain, if heard aloud
would break the hearts of men

The little bird falls quiet now,
Her end is drawing near
and not a single soul will know
that she was ever here.

You
undress
my wounds
as if
they are
just as
soft
as my
skin.

Here's to the man in the mirror
the ascending sun
not some saint of sinners

Here's to a higher route
with its timely turns
and harvests wrought from drought

Here's to the ones who scorn
their hearts yet lined with lead
their purloined peace, I mourn

Here's to the blessed and grace-filled
who have left their radiant marks upon me
and fields of hope still to be tilled