Nightcall Whispers and Cardinal Birdsongs
MAY 04, 2025
Provoke me, but
I could never do something so cruel
As to shake the mesh of cinched lavender
Or strike my pen upon any influence of the artificial decline in men
That destroys our sacred matter.
So prosaic, it taunts our already ruffled feathers
And I am but a sea nymph
Begging for pleasure.
I’ve only longed for the child within myself
To feel half as good as the painter
Who once painted with mighty ears
Or the calf who, born out of the good grace of God
Found its opened eyes to a loving mother
Prancing lillily in the valley.
And I fear only now, we have all been thrown to wolves.
Just as the woman who tried to raise me
who could not, through any effort, follow her own dreams
And as the pilgrimage of the call that I have answered
Has left me with all the guilt of the past, a cyclic monotony
of aging and ancestral memory.
But what is a pain that does not only transgress and linger
And if I cry a thousand tears
And face just as many deaths
Does it then make me only equal to the rest?
Solemn in bitter days I confess
I’ve only have faced those many deaths
And my tears, that run out for fear for rest
Because I do not wish to blow away
In the wind as my predecessors
Or all those mighty feathers.
Am I only one of many who might see
A dreadful beginning
Coming to fruition
As an artificial whistle,
Blowing along with my feathers
Ever so elegantly
Against the wind
Festers? 