flynnfromblakely

  i would sometimes like to think i am going mad for i sing for everyone seeks for answers and yet my song goes unheard and i am shrunken  little bird smaller until nothing at all yet i sing and i am either dead or dying  in myself from the fumes, sickly sweet,  of Delphi or the soft silence of tunnels  that house things i don’t need and will never see save for the glimmers  in their hands offerings for something larger that they sing of in a small box or a temple i am equally dead used for the lungs that they destroy with wanton apathy but i sing with another choking breath for the crimes of war the hands around my neck and the thickening air the men’s voices screaming  harsh on my ears all noise and no words that i am useless for my song that may yet save them from love of gold bodily greed the breath branching in my chest widens head sways feet stumble  as i struggle shaking to move. to sing for them.