I've got no room for poetry.
Mind's awash in a sea of transmission,
grey decay, and salty dreams. The dead
call without care, drawing me into them.
I must go.

A moral obligation to resist the temperature
of the mid day sun; but it burns with a heat
I cannot deny.

Desire blooms on my branches.

Perch. And I will draw out your sweet voice,
and tuck you in at night between my leaves,
dress you up in bright pink petals in the morning;
and kiss you softly before you fly away.