In your old age, I'll have to rise
In murky waters in spite of yourself,
Your damned wild diving bird to show
You your own blue skies yourself.
Music is what we need if we want
To blame silence for this. Sorry.
I'll have no choice but
To foist my red-eyed, sleek-billed
Silhouette on your blurry eyesight.
Oh quit it, now. You won't know
What the language you collage
Even sounds like anymore
When one of your few crooners
And laughers among the literary
Ruffs and pigeon feathers croaks
Into song. Your eyes, your ears,
Our memories, if thinking
Any of this was anything
To do with me, are closing. Here's
A cry and a shot of faith
And a meditation bell. You're not
Paddling out away forever
From the last bird left mad enough
To banter of being with angels and you.
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