Bruised Blackbird

I stand atop a podium made of a million mirrors. Pointing a troupe of crooked-stained glass fingers... I was a never born a creature of graceful restraint. Leaning heavily on the sinners and lightly on saints. Many times, I've done the opposite of what I say... but have always attempted not to stagger or to stray... from that righteous passage with beautified lights. Occasionally I've breached that thin yellow line. Life gives the choice of mouthing a golden glazed flute or pushing pedals to metal on the dark side of the moon. I choose to wield big neon sticks and rattle some stars. I'm a bruised blackbird, wings forged from deep battle scars. I'm dark matter -heavy metal clatter to the face of the sun, Wouldn't mind dying in the arms of my black satin woman. I'm a bruised blackbird, wings forged from deep battle scars. Some were meant to play as lions and some like meadowlark.