Death is to become sunshine,
To break open the self to the world,
In sunwheat gold and peasant hearth,
(The sun is the only empire of peasants)
Every grain of annihilation is still a seed,
And the sunlight carries the sleepless dead,
Their melted voices are warm upon our ears,
The sounds rooted in, but when we do not hear,
No more than the dead worshiping the dead.

I WANNA FLY,
I WANNA FLY HIGH
SOAR THROUGH THE SKY

I WANNA FLY,
LIKE A BIRD,
WITH NOTHING TO BE SCARED OF
WITH NOTHING TO BE AFRAID OF

I WANNA FLY,
IN THE OPEN SKY
WITH BRIGHT SUNLIGHT IN THE DAY
WITH DAZZLING STARS IN THE NIGHT

I WANNA FLY,
WITH THE SUNLIGHT ON MY SKIN
WITH THE MOONLIGHT ILLUMINATING THE SKY

I WANNA FLY,
I WANNA FLY HIGH
SOAR THROUGH THE SKY
LIKE I’M BORN TO BE AIRBORNE

apart from the city, steven is sleeping
his fur is made of sunlight
steven's retinals, archives of memories, are glowing

beneath is a lake that reflects the shining
steven's relaxed glimpse swims on the surface
earlier, his pack was murdered

above his head, an orbital cloud is floating
ghosts of the dead ones
urge to communicate

across the lake, a maze of wishes
drifts through the water
empty faces, eyeless and earless

In this moment,
All swamp air and sunlight spotlight,
Sat atop an old oak log,
I wonder
Who listened
To the swansong sinking melodies
caught between opulence and open water.
Who will listen
To our deep-space golden records
lost between planet and pale blue dot.
Who is listening
To my hushed hums on an old oak log
that once fell and may have made a sound.

I wonder.

And I listen.

while we
let the sun kiss our skin
we watched the sky
through the leaves
and talked
about the weight of the world
which is laying on the shoulders
of our generation