It’s hard to let go of flowers and fire when
one has embodied them their entire life;
I was nocturnal, pulsing with the moon’s energy
and lending heart every now and then,
I didn’t know that some of them would lie.
I fly through abalone clouds
with strange birds now and wonder what it all
meant and why.
I have thought about why I love blustery windy days;
perhaps, I needed respite from heat,
as spring bloomed under skin,
and a thousand words burst forth to touch,
softly at first and then persistently
with an intention to capture hearts that have wilted,
some were favorites
while others scored without regret—
I would have liked to know them better while
there was time;
I wonder if they cried when I was being placed into
the ground, who knows.
And what of this heart, that falls in love
as quickly as one catches a cold;
I was vibrant, as spice is
with layers of complex flavors so to speak,
it’s difficult to forget,
hands full of collected heartbeats and a voice
could the impossible ensue, so that I could
tell them melodies were sincere
atleast from my end—
spring littering the black and glossy asphalt,
doesn’t it know that people fail to appreciate?
Strange birds, I have been heard many times,
but it feels like candor was wasted,
it’s midnight, and the moon is shaped
like a prayer, the sensitive ones
it seems, are lost in the rain,
I see them, from the clouds, holding on
desperately to hope that blossoms–
how do I return and tell them they are not
alone in their desires for something worthwhile?
Just then, the alarm rings,
I open my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief.
Here we go again.
Photo credits: Pinterest
Loosely inspired by “STRANGE BIRDS,” WRITTEN BY SIA FURLER & BIRDY 🐦