The mind fumbles and curls into itself
Like wires running wild, puppeteers
Threading strings to cut them off.
Anemone withdraws the lungs
That breathe in fumes of poison,
All whispering smoke and falsehood.
Kindred spirits conquer the heart
And devour birdsongs, for they are just
Trains marching along a broken track.
The hand bends with a fickle will,
Like wildfire dancing in the shadows
Of daylight into some quiet night.
Nights spent hollow as the shrill
Laughter of deceiving doves are now a
Crowd of people, bleeding earnestly
And endlessly into a woeful time of day.
They are fragile souls and you are one
Of many to live and to break, out silenced
By the bustling crowd of weeping birds.