The Old Story

A slow flying songbird will reach the end of it’s life. It will glide and sweep then Tumble and fall. It will fall away from the sky, That sky It has come to known so well, Tumbling away from an infinite abyss. I’ll be reaching the end of this myth With a sigh Like a milky eyed dreamer Finishing his last wet line. I've painted myself in unfamiliar shoes. I fought the pain of blooming In the palm of his summery hand. I found myself wilting and dying. Yet he will live on through this saga. Holding his breath as he retreats Into his whispering trees, Still fighting and swaying With a whimsical breeze. A breeze that he will never forget to compliment Or hold close to his skin. His breeze that never sleeps And never eats. If I were a person, I’d be the blurred and bizarre face That lay not quite within his reach But always in the background of Some forgotten place. If I were a person, I’d be the speculated stranger Who stands inside a forest of trees With softer seeds. Softer than any single rebellious sea. Yet I will still be unfamiliar. Clutching the cloth of my skirts With trembling hands as I reside into a distant shack Of cryptic cats and lovers lacked. A shack of fear and mystery with Ivy so thick that it’s painful to breathe. My secret shack of loneliness. My isolated skin. And in this skin I wonder Of moments long ago; Of moments when his eyes would catch A buried, bitter glow, Of moments when the weight of love Could never be bestowed. And I will reminisce; Reminisce the yearning of Some stupid stuttered churning, Reminisce the burning of A broken hearted stirring As I’m rapping lightly On the wood Beneath his floor.