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PossiblyMe 
3:27am, July 22, 2009
They have marked our headstones,
stickly and fallen embers,
with the well wishings of children,
far too young to know this grievance
yet they shed.
We are but alive in this vagabond's tomb.
How on the fingertip of God we will be plucked,
dried seeds born of non fruit,
sleeping princess's eyelids, windmill lashes
how we will dance,
a wail of ivory trumpet, a voyage of silent sirens,
a hundred million angel's sense of harlot regret,
how we will dance.
We will chase the fluttered flags,
thrown high on the windmill's branch
circular in its rotary, quiet in its determination,
we will chase through.
Under this worm's carpet we have clung
the breath of angels, whispers of sinisters
we will chase the dance through the wiring
this earthly closing of caskets,
six broken nails and eight broken hands,
we were buried all but soon.
We will not wait until the third burning star
we wish to bid farewell today,
as we dance, we bracket our branches
we comb our wigs
we are ready for your stories
the fond memories of our passing
The story to children's child
to mind the windmill's branch
to fair well in the dirt, behave
or They will place you into branched arms
dancing, climbing, clawing,
living while living is nay the suitable habit.
