If songbirds could bring their charisma between their wings
And sing so every bird loved them
I am not a one who overwhelms in the sea of sirens
And my legs do not scream te quiero
And I am no songbird
Who raises a wing to carve each single feature of David with a chisel carefully
Who demands the wren to stand on the top branch
But you hear my chirp
Which echoes through your corazón
We fly through deserted parks that once served as the venue
For 2005’s summertime music festival
Lemonade and sawdust
A complain for a piña colada.
I sometimes yearn to be the pineapple
So my coconut can always stay close to me.
I sometimes yearn to be the cutting coolness of September
Whose flagella caresses the trees with a honey-smooth touch
Can Juliet hear the songbird’s cry?
Who has counted his own heart with the feathers on his wings
And plucked them out one by one
As the feathers are deserted yet again
Like the park who once yielded to a songbird and its wren
Who has covered its own soul with eternal mist
The cold minty mist of September, I suppose
It whips in my feathers so!
But as my soul is covered
Where is my wren?
The wren has silenced itself
The songbird has quieted itself
I am Earl Gray you are Breakfast
We clash and embrace
And hold the mist in our mugs
Good old fashioned mugs with checkers on them
And a few spills of the tea
Is it possible for the teabag to wither?
To charge itself with the Spring-tinged flavour of April mist?
To die on a bed of tangerine-veined June tears?
I wonder so.
My songbird has many hearts.
One for his wren
One for the cold minty mist of September
For his wren lives in September.
He ignites the hay with his scorching mist of August
And waits for the wren
Her mist is intelligible.
His mist is anxious.
Yes, she can still hear his fateful chirp that brought her to
Life and death
Through hope and despair.
Her mist wavers on the wide highway
As the gray truck rides into the sunset
And she wonders
Could the couple in the truck
Have been he and I?
He chirps on singing the same song
Pondering his sanity
On the ridge of insanity
But with sweet certainty
He has loved and been loved.