The Sounds Inside

I watch the birds
rigid and stern,
calling out to me,
singing off the beat.
I am so tired,
so very weary,
words elude me.

Black little jade,
coaxed renegade,
sifting crystals
like glass on worn out
sand, the promised
land, the last bastion
of the hanged man,
I don’t appear on the map,
I don’t appear amongst the
fault lines, the snapping
mountains, the lapsing
glaciers, the dead sea,
the wasteland,

I wish to be far away
when I die, scatter me
in the east, rally to watch me
disperse, clinging to
the rising winds, carried on
the broken wings of
the birds, singing to me,
but thinking of you,
wishing you were here.

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