Nothing's so lucid as the promise of dreams, but
these pills we found just make me sleep.

There's nothing quite so pure as the written word
my dear, so lets have ourselves a little poem.

Until the will to speak loses urgency.

Our animal indecency in print is so blase.

Its about the bell tower, at the golden hour.

Angel of the spires climbs here steel cage
staircase spine, angle of desire.

Ascend the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by
wrung.

Is it the rising roof line that makes me feel so
swallowed whole,

or the way my body barely pricks the sky,

the same as a century's worth of virgin's blood
that's passed through my longing veins,

scheming to convince my aching mind that
pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need.

Nothing's so purile as meter and rhyme when you
can't see the ground from that ledge and this
perch is so far, far from the nest.

Gravity doesn't grant me the privilege of failure
my bough never breaks

I don't stumble into anything

so I climb and I carve my initials in the bark
with that feather I found but its all so
contrived.

My genes didn't bless me with the foresight of a
sage but I know how this will end, in apologies
and ink on the page.

A slowly constructed crow quilled confession of
my spirit to all of you,

black waterproof ink scars the board, so
hot-pressed, pristine and pure.

A slowly constructed manifestation of to tremble,

as base as a bridge in a song and less like the
poem that I promised you.

Nothing's so lurid as haiku-detat on sidewalks in
white outlined chalk,

all I've got is this ink smeared lines.

With our voices in harmony, the offering, of a
crow quilled threnody.