Untitled

Birds on barbed wire,
their sickly song
is sweet and subtle,
and as they sway,
we move along with them,
chuck key’s passive restraint,
angular and swift,
momentum in a vacuum,
so we mimic,
tools in a chest,
pluck the strings through
foul air, dance in a sequence,
hop and jump,
as peerless cohorts our sheen a
badge of boundless beauty,
as lovers, our joy a sightless
movement, but we persist,
our choice now fate,
and the birds dismount,
fly to the sun, and the walls
lack color this day, so we wait
for them to return,
and we write more
for our thankless voyage,
cutting deep into our souls,
nicking our hearts along
the way, each day
our songs speak like
foreign tongues, our moments
to translate, still forgotten
and heaped in muddy water.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on March 9, 2018.

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