Photo by Seth Macey on Unsplash
A Fragile Song
Echoes of my dream-defined visions declare war,
starbursts strike scores,
both friend and foe,
but what for?
The home that I called my base came unmoored;
willow that I know,
now embers in day-glow.
I know the sparrow that lived here,
I defended her,
but now her expended song
tends my fear.
With a voice too delicate to vibrate,
she lends me the will and might to migrate:
“Not everything ends badly,
that is conjecture.
Though everything ends
at least from our perspective.
“We can’t make amends
with cosmic architecture,
but we can begin
to live within.”
Echoes of my mother’s laugh
ring long after her last breath.
Father’s lectures resonate
beyond his untimely fate.
I derive no meaning
from their unbeating hearts,
eyes bleared from tears when
lingering on their departs.
Words left unsaid will remain unspoken,
except in dreams, with the visions unwoven.
I’ve chosen to fixate on the song of that bird
whose weakness conflated
a strength that reverbed:
“Not everything ends badly;
that’s a fiction.
Though everything ends;
sadly, it’s our restriction.
“We can’t make amends
with our cell’s afflictions,
but we can begin
to live within.”
She and I loved
with conviction and convection.
Our fronts clashed in wind-slashed storms,
with no direction.
We blew ourselves apart,
parting with bitter sorrow.
Despite our worser parts,
there still came a tomorrow.
We now know the science of us, but too late
to rewind and find some solace in our fate,
but wait and listen to the sparrow
as her frail song pierces our marrow:
“Not everything ends badly,
though everything ends.
We can’t make amends
with past lovers and friends,
but we can extend
our hands and transcend
beginnings and endings
as we live within.”
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