There is a view of reality from up here
and I beg the birds to swoop
some down to you, silently
through painted eyes.
They fly your perimeter,
mocking my prison that you lovingly built. Whispering,
squawking, haunting my true self.
She has the saddest green eyes that bleed with a
trickling tears of knowledge
back down to you.
Your imagery remains unstained
as they’re consumed, that merciless
wind, drop by drop. Gone.
Eternally never yours.
She is dying.
She’s fucking dying.
And I am too high, too
busy twirling for you, in time to your
mechanical music, to be able to
perform a miracle