If you can't live with the thought of dying
Then don't drop when the bottle shatters
On the steps of the dream that matters
Listen closely if you dare to wonder
I'm the Robin in the nest
With needles slipping through my heart
And so I bleed, but this is art
I'm here to love like no one yet has
I'm here to cherish the purple flowers
That squeeze through the cracks in the pavement
And the thorns that bite impatient hands
I'm glad for the silver drum of the winter
And the sharp golden tang of summer
Whatever might be said of me
My hammer never fell on bones
I only crafted death in a box
Beneath the dirt I'm the author
The architect of my own black coffin
Perhaps it is fitting that no stone pillars
Can support my Fragile castle walls
And that no wings can bear me upto you
But I'll be the dread, ancient freedom
Before I'll allow the knives to distract
The shadows from grieving all my stately plots
And strategies like knots of tragedies
Narrowed down to bone and gauze
Of flesh and broken sounds like brass
Decaying in my hand as the cards are dealt
To the foolish men who never have time
For reason or faith, thanks to the horses
That crumble as the beast is slain
And hanged from the rafters of the painted stage


© Willows