When the Birds Sing

It is an American Dream 

that floats the boats and 

indulges in the pits 

of tar beneath our feet. 

A fickle dream, 

where joy is endless, 

making us whole and 

broken hearted 

in the summer night's blossom. 

A spiralling staircase of 

cascading, diamond thoughts 

will cart you to a land 

of Paradise, 

a side of the world we 

wish to see and hardly attain. 

Man is prevented from  

reaching the unreachable  

through fear of the bottomless 

Unknown.  

And when I’m Smaller, 

Older, 

Greyer, 

maybe then I’ll see why 

we strive so far 

to see so little: 

why we search for a green light 

that dilates when we are close 

as it notices a new prey or 

spiritless vessel. 

Tomorrow, I will cry under 

weeping willows 

while my friends spread 

their arms and inhale 

pixie happiness whether they 

deserve it or not. 

They will be propelling their boats forward, 

and  

I 

will be forever  

backwards, 

grasping for 

the white curtains 

and the blood-stained carpet.