POEM: Birds With Gills.

We rode to the banquet
like the harlequin of death,
in a piebald stallion of jest—
we made shame where shame couldn’t make itself—
we danced around a stump
celebrating the betrothal of fire and ice,
of flesh and sword;
and like madmen,
we danced on the sinking titanic—
And down we went,
on waves of their screaming—

We rocked their uncertain boats and their sodden cruelty
till we breached their sallow liveliness
And all these branches
stood out over the driftwood of our supplicating hands
where we struggled like ghosts
haunting our own shadows.

Crying like birds in windless—cloudless voids,
our wings were basal, daunted by sturdiness,
And we dreamed of a fall, we flapped our gauntlets,
and filled the silhouette of infamy
with the leather landscape of our dim argent moons,

We were Icarus—flying past the sun—
Buoying towards the smoldering ash of
our own contrition—
we were the birds born to swim,
birds born not to soar.

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