I’m nothing, if not fowl, so my instinct’s to fly,
but half-human pilots can’t stay long in sky.

My ears are starved for whispers braised with creamy words,
or the sound of grinding thunder, or the rain of extinct birds.

my fingers ache through time and space as if I’m reading braille,
though the letters evade my memory and my wind reeds sometimes fail.

perhaps, embossed in hunches, my sightless senses see,
the whirlpools deep inside a man that just won’t leave him be.

I eavesdrop haunts, that stoic’s dream of finding yourself whole,
the ghosts of being so alive, a gypsy can cajole.

Yet, when unleashed, it is a threat that rearranges life
there is no solace underground for a sacrificial wife.

This bade me, scarlet breather, I burn forests every day,
that ashes blow for centuries when a phoenix catches prey.

from human trance awakens, the urge the Gods thought clever
a feature of divine restraint, a pathless lost endeavor.

The forest thrives as new life grows, but under wild flowers,
fertilized by decaying vines, is a century of lost hours.

The silhouettes still live in walls, dance baited in such splendor,
the master that relieves the moon, a shadow’s skill, to tender.

each sacred twist, to rise like a mist in brief flickers in the hall,
of secrets of ships that pass in the night, yet never make land fall.