Attentive student of the songs of birds,
    No beakèd beast hath e'er more sweetly trill'd
A pair of notes or call'd in major thirds
    Or minor with musicality more skill'd.
Adaptive linguist, practic'd in the tongue  
    Of wingèd feather'd creatures, thou hast writ
Into "The Birdsong Songbook" songs unsung
    By birds which yet harmoniously fit.
And though the book began in higher throats
    Diversely tun'd by Nature's artful hand
Ere measur'd were the times and tones of notes,
    (Which often rest them now upon a stand),
Its finest lines (o'er which I now do rave)
Witness thy penmanship on every stave.

^ ^

Hurricane season
All throughout my cotton pocket
Comfort, such a tricky muse,
I found it!
Nope.. that’s not it.
But it was, a subtle fuzziness,
My nerves suddenly honey dipped
The sweetest,
****.. here comes the bees
& once again i’m running stiff.
Freest when i’m knotted up
I gotta bottle up
The ****** such and such
Until I’m still enough to drift beyond the cusp
The same setting sun,
The same son will set unsettled.
Another silent night,
Another fight against the nettles.
I need a rest,
To feel closer to death.
To keep me at my best.
It’s like a test,
Each time I lay in bed.
I have to try my best.
To stay there,
Blankets wrapping round me
Don’t ground me.
Still awake,
I lay, awaiting sleep to come and drown me.