The Old Story
A slow flying songbird will reach the end of it’s life.
It will glide and sweep then
Tumble and fall.
It will fall away from the sky,
That sky
It has come to known so well,
Tumbling away from an infinite abyss.
I’ll be reaching the end of this myth
With a sigh
Like a milky eyed dreamer
Finishing his last wet line.
I've painted myself in unfamiliar shoes.
I fought the pain of blooming
In the palm of his summery hand.
I found myself wilting and dying.
Yet he will live on through this saga.
Holding his breath as he retreats
Into his whispering trees,
Still fighting and swaying
With a whimsical breeze.
A breeze that he will never forget to compliment
Or hold close to his skin.
His breeze that never sleeps
And never eats.
If I were a person,
I’d be the blurred and bizarre face
That lay not quite within his reach
But always in the background of
Some forgotten place.
If I were a person,
I’d be the speculated stranger
Who stands inside a forest of trees
With softer seeds.
Softer than any single rebellious sea.
Yet I will still be unfamiliar.
Clutching the cloth of my skirts
With trembling hands as
I reside into a distant shack
Of cryptic cats and lovers lacked.
A shack of fear and mystery with
Ivy so thick that it’s painful to breathe.
My secret shack of loneliness.
My isolated skin.
And in this skin I wonder
Of moments long ago;
Of moments when his eyes would catch
A buried, bitter glow,
Of moments when the weight of love
Could never be bestowed.
And I will reminisce;
Reminisce the yearning of
Some stupid stuttered churning,
Reminisce the burning of
A broken hearted stirring
As I’m rapping lightly
On the wood
Beneath his floor.
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