I wonder if you spoke to the stars in the black sky, would they listen? If I were to confess all of the things welling up inside my chest if that would make a difference—maybe I’d tell them all of my secrets. The night sky blankets your eyes and your ears, yet you still see the flickering candles way up high and can hone into the nocturnal birdsong. Crickets are like a drum line, playing their repetitive beats only to be disturbed by the loud sounds of music of people who celebrate everything that there is to celebrate in life. I say I’m as black as my shirt, as black as the outside corridors and the broken concrete fences waiting repair. I am like my house, an unfinished product, a byproduct of cortisol and dopamine. Perhaps this is what melancholy feels like. The body still tunes in to pleasure, but the brain doesn’t ignite the same ways it used to. So this brings me back to the night sky… Why tell it anything if it’s too far away to hear me? Maybe it’s better to gently place this weight on the soaked grass and perhaps it will provide my resuscitating roses with adequate nutrition.
The trees rustle in the wind as bird chirp their unique trill. My body is surrounded by a fresh wind on a warm day and it feels like a mint leaf, aromatic and icy at the touch. Meanwhile my head is fuzzy as if bees had been buzzing around it all morning. The sun’s rays warm up the ground and shine with the splendor of starlight as I sit here calmly in a meditative state.
She woke up and thanked the light of the sun for letting her breathe deeply before the day even begun. Woken to laughter and joy emanating from restricted bodies in their respective cages showed her that it wasn’t where you were, but who you became from it. Every gift has not been tied with a bow and some brought her so low she wished she were six feet underneath the rock blanketed by the night’s stars. The moments when she was deep down, wooden caskets deteriorated to free a changing body. The debris paved the way to aid in the growth of rainbow eucalyptus trees breathing fresh life into the birds and their tiny, fast-beating hearts. That way, when the flood came, her soul would fly to the atmosphere of this spherical planet that took you places and brought you back.
La, da, da-da.
Feel my power. Two flying birds are swimming in purple-gray skies that are cracking open before my eyes. Sweet lavender and jasmine. The birds circle the ring of fire that signify the irises of my eyes as they glisten with depth. They are facing the skies I eulogize in my memories–tomorrow.
Rumbles reverberate from my chest as I hum pin-drop tunes. Birds fly in the sky together as one and I try to grasp their spirit and emulate it onto me. When the fires start to pour all will be indistinguishable from polymer plastics to electricity crumbling my lavender skies.
Two birds of a feather shed excess weight to fly higher and love one another while flowing towards migration patterns to sing the flowers out of trouble.
I see the shape of planets in my deep afternoon sky as they reveal volcanic eruptions and whirlpools of dust. Each tree is a grass this evening. The storm is coming now. Origins within my mind as two birds diverge to open up my path to the sky. I am the splitting Earth. My breath an implosion, explosion.
The bird song goes like this:
It will never work
It will never work.
Outside my window it chirps the same four words because three words are too hard to sing. With eyes glued shut and sore muscles I recline and attempt to wake. It will never work. It will never work. Damn birds, how can they make such sad songs sound so beautiful? It peeks its head against the window screen because there is no way there’s room in my room for free creatures. I feel claustrophobic and nausea overcompensates for my lack of sleep. It will never work. My eyes finally slowly open and burn as if sunlight were shining into them on a hot summer day at the beach. My bed feels like sand and my body is drenched in sweat. I stretch, first my arms and then my abdomen until I twist the way the water falling out of a low-pressure faucet would. It will never… Work.