The burning night has since crept low,
Like driftwood entangled in the wind,
Whispering needles of pine in my sight.
Cradled by stars and raven wings,
A fool's gold of solitary respite
Tucked between my feathers, unsure.
Wavering uncertainty curls ever deep
Into fickle curiosity that stains like fire,
Unfettered charcoal in my plighted sleep.
A trifling matter, some harrowing cost.
Burned into glass of mist and fog,
Silent bearing and hauntingly still.
Wild and shrill like the weeping crows,
Dark plumes of a dove in the mountain.
A flick of my wrist and all is hapless.
Like a quill untethered, bleeding ink
Into my soured lungs, tainted and brittle.
Quiet and hush, seek shelter we must.
Tangled in the string and trapped
Within the threads of forlorn sorrow,
A somber breath in the wake of my sun.
A faint memory, bitter and fragile,
Crumbling gemstones cut into and torn.
Whims of my stars, akin to brittle bones.
Eager to snap and rest in solemn unease,
A wildfire dancing with lingering smoke
Tucked in the depths of my hollow lips.
Planted into the earth, burrowed within
The dust of bygone birds with wings
Unbalanced, bled into my worn eclipse.