Better Out Than In

My skull is a prison.

I have clipped the wings of the only thing that sings,

I cannot bear the sight

Of the feathered white

Stuck in the confines of my cramped mind.

He rasps and scratches at the silver lock,

Rejoin his birdly flock.


There is a magic in words.

The leftovers of your magnificent meal,

A burning fire only you can feel

Deep inside your itching guts

As your eyes take them

And etch them on your heart.


And through you, you feel a flow,

A hundred voices, a brilliant glow,

The greatest drum starts to grow

Within the walls of your empty chest

As your brain awakens from its year-long rest.


Find me the key

Water for the poem-tree

Set the blue-bird free

Fly up, fly up and be.

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