A Simple Love Song

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
Like teabags

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.


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