Valley that fell from existence, and from Grace
Come along when night falls,
regardless of the day spent away, or in thought.
Draw a vessel on the ground, it shall do for when singularity,
and decay of matter comes to rob away this facade.
In belonging, and of it is the curse; the urge always upsurged,
tides washing away all hubris of flesh, and the futile burden lathed upon the head.
Come tide, wash away my humble abode, and all hope it holds.
Take away the svelte claim of building a home.
A home big enough for us,
and the acknowledgment of impending scrutiny and shame that would fall—
of being weighed by bricks, while we are stoned in the name of god.
The sparrow up upon that tree, indulges with delight
upon the parasites that feast on the bark, laying directly under the shade.
The canopy was its shelter from the sun, and the cause of all ailments the tree bore.
It pranced smidgen on the infestations that run as deep trenches,
within the bark of this tree.
The sight lacked any hint of good as its preached,
but for the prison that this place had come to be
this bird, that was exiled from the state, is my new barbaric king!
Don't let your sight be that of a fool,
don't be consumed in hysteria, bafflement, remorse, or rage.
Tend to its call a moment, listen without disruption
now that you're in the valley.
Forego from indulging in food for another week-long,
call upon yourself a necessity to serve in exile,
let the notion perpetuate until you come to rise at once—
after witnessing total damnation and corruption of mind.
Now you'll hear the bird talk.
The society that lingered within has met its fate in the process of the exile;
You now possess a free, ungrounded, terrifying spectacle
of the human mind—of which you're fully in charge.
Beauty has bled out of your conscious,
so has the curse of familiarity and love.
The sparrow and its voice are now the only matters of interest.
As you pay attention, chirps turn into cries—
the sparrow had been mourning all year long.
“Was it sudden, infant’s death? Or an assault—loss of control,
or the grand coronation it had?”
I wouldn't know, I couldn't tell.
My expertise lied in the instigation, not in the vicious escape from madness,
all I ever did was bring them to flames: light the spark in people, and show them the path.
I'd never been to the end, my coward never would.
What awaits you to make the proclamation of peace instead, and fit the role of a king?
The sparrow wouldn't fly any longer,
it wouldn't come to mourn in your ears I'd heard.
And the vessel that you drew is where I'd be buried,
it was time I succumbed to defeat and entered the age of the grave.