Spirit bland as black ink
Am I a victim of my own melancholic wings?
That is? Is I smudged and spreading,
That my darling – won’t work…
Darling all I read is your headlines…
Am I a victim of my own melancholic thinking’s?
That is smudged and spreading,
Across that psychiatrist folded piece of paper.
“O When my heart he asks me
What do you see?
And I say – I answer
I with you – in loves permanence.
He answers me too!
He says you’re the white dove’s effervescence
But was I the one who was dreaming….
He says you’re the white surround
And the in between too me!
“O doctor is I a victim in this love
Just another blank unmarked scored page
Of music that never really made a sound
One you’d want to hide and cover up?
Spirit bland as black ink
With that bullets dull ache
I have a kite’s strings tug of melancholy
Like never before…
Where lightening severs the chord
And I’m left smudged _ and I am gone
A migrating bird up into black skies…
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