Her spider fingers plucked and strummed away to create the silvery shavings of pitch that floated up like a feather caught on one single gust of wind.
Keep feeling the steel,
Keep feeling the wood
on the tips of my tentacle
His beak parted and spoke each word of the text,
as he waved his wings across and up and down.
There were no windows anywhere,
but there wasn’t a place to fly to.
The light that made his feathers shine,
though they were black,
I knew that they were a reflection of the sound too…
the music of the bird whistles
and the pats of their bird feet
on the carpet.
Then of course, there is that fucking
Just as you learn to be
afraid and angry at the things that hurt you,
I am afraid that I have become a sad and bitter soul.
I won’t say that I can’t be saved—
I can! But only by myself.
And I have never felt so static and
Even with all this beautiful music and light,
surrounded by muses waiting
for me to break into it and smile…