When my thoughts grow littered with open graves, the birds and bell-trees I’ve melodicised into being get harder to find.
The only thing these eyes know how to read is all the news that’s fit to bleed.
In times like these, I play rock, paper, scissors with broken mirrors. I swill the muscatel of human misery and shadowbox false prophets.
But I don’t wanna spend my life writing crow melodies other crows wouldn’t sing.
I don’t wanna be buried alive by tears.
I know the way of the sun; it rises just behind your eyes.
And so I climb up and out of any grave of me to reach you.