At the point where fingers are tips
skin lingers from bone
the edge of body
skin tone independent of light
texture numb of touch
much of what made the spine in ruins
and neck the pivot of head is a one way road
They all sit
an annoying symposium of sick things
once known to chest and ear as birds
the faded music of a laughter forgotten
and today with loathed echoes
They sit and swallow tea
over a mutual memory shared
in different times,
the breaking bread
the small back
they all once emptied their lonely over
Them strangers in near history
eyes charged with prospects of a friendly future
not so long from here,
to be precise,
as long as his bad name and filthy skin can stretch
But for a man with such a short name
how long will their songs last for?
A man with such thin skin
How far will the congregation stay?
O the folly of a church built on the bad music of angels
A flock of songbirds gathered under a tree of giant ears
How it will swallow their songs before the air
The tree casts the longest shadow
hearing songs from beneath a bird’s breastplate
Them lovely strangers
what amount of notes will their terrible voices
need to sing in attempts to out live his name
and out live the tree with giant ears to maintain the union?
Do they even feel anything about each other
beyond the dead man’s silent song?
How long will this awkward union stretch?
and the tree’s ears…back to The Shadows.
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