****

The golden peak sings its last song,
as future flickers its wings in those dead eyes.
He wished for the morning,
but when it arrived
with the freezing sunbeams of the winter,
he knew it had to be the bad choice.

Blue feathers shattered into the dust.
You brought white lillies to his grave,
when every day of the new year begun.

Pour this venom out, child.
Like black disease from thine heart.
It was his choice to go.

The veins are pulsing.
Desperately.
Wait.

Wait....

Thine time isn't here yet, child.
Year after year, until the circle is filled.
Until the next life starts to run.
Inside this bosom,
carrying the son of the singingbird.