Oh, how the caged bird sings...
From the nest made of  fallen earrings, flattened rings, and tangled wiring.
Is there a difference between a cage and a nest?
Is a home a shelter or a prison?
I guess it just depends on who has access to the door.

Are you tired of boxes or tired of moving?
My nomadic experience provides definition to previous gleanings.
Death Row is still living, while Hobo Bo yearns for the meaning.
Feed the dog first and then get your filling.
Expanding your consciousness, but how far are you willing?
Your pupils can only expand so much before your eyes are nothing but black holes with no floors or ceilings.

How old is this feeling?
Your camera lens will fracture if you don't stop twisting.
Pretty soon you won't be able to view anything.  
Your tree houses how many rings?
Did you really free yourself or is the cage just disappearing?
How close can you get to flying without batting your wings?
How close to the sun can you fly be before frying? What good does that bring? Let freedom ring.

So sing, little bird, sing your song of searing madness.
Whether I'm shackled to this perch or flying in circles out in a clearing,
As long as I'm listening to these same sweet melodies there is nothing to be fearing,
For I'm listening to the most beautiful song that I can ever remember hearing.
A bird lives a simple life, and in the end that is what is most endearing.
Sing freedom, sing.

high over clear-washed stone, faint whispering,
the moon-bright tide cascades, the wild sea rose
has blossomed, nodding where the salt wave flows,
the wide unconquered brines great murmuring.
storm rock, night air, the white foam glistening
on wandering sand, the night's rich harvest grows
as passive as a flower, the sea-breeze blows
above the glassy ocean's thundering.
our love as free as this the windswept wave,
its rhythmic sigh, here in your arms i seek
a treasury of love, exotic gems,
before the folding tide, the current's slave.
the stronghold falls, the sleeping waters speak
of soft goodbyes and watery diadems.

the enfeebled voice spoke of hopelessness
the inflamed flesh told of a spirit subdued
shrunken and felled by a creeping weakness
her sightless eyes  were a sign of approaching demise
yet she said she would see me in the morning
and next day under the winking sun i was at her mourning
keeping a promise made a long time ago under a cork tree
to sing about the beauty of a true heart that loved well
and how there was a place and a time for sundown trysts
in the world of articulate shadows beyond the endless blue
and there an enigmatic silhouette she waits in expectant vigil

Winter's amber fire
the ashen woods we burned
wet smoulder of mire
the water and the fire.
Dark ancestral home
nights moon shivering cold
stars fixed or falling
beyond the skies fiery yields
only dying embers
lost in oblivion's field.