songbirds

nightingale

this isn't the complacency that's served to comfort me
for years, and days
slipping in and out of time
the tight lipped secrets of pantomimes
and statues
lisping out of my soul
boiling out of my mouth into seas of passion
and decay, the crumbling of my
bones,
limping away into peninsulas
whence our love faded, thrice.

each negative summer, erased like ripping through cassette tapes
finding each memory stuffed into a drawer discarded like trash
on the sun porch of our summer home.

lyrebird

I set the typewriter on fire if only to match my tears
stationery, pens and paper have all escaped my grasp
foreign to my touch and breaking my wrists
I set my typewriter on fire.

Piopo

Veins of liars and sighs of relief from saints
under a ceiling of ink
dripping and making us thirst
our throats drowning with the taste of such bitter ink
from your pen and paper ooze the vitriol to
bury a thousand empires
the secrets you've dropped have been collected
and placed in the shadows of the
kingdoms fall, because when the seasons change
and the sun is exhausted,
fatigued and
desperate we'll be clawing
at your throat. so please,
save us.