Bruised Blackbird
I stand atop a podium made of a million mirrors.
Pointing with a troupe of crooked stained-glass fingers.
I was never born a creature of graceful restraint.
Leaning heavily on 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 live as lions and some like meadowlark.
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