O do the stars in the heavens weary themselves over the young.
The ways of wood and stone weight heavy on fragile shell,
The fingers of salt and snow wash away velvety innocence.

Little birds grow together and beat their wings in song.
Some become sparrows while others the ravens of hell,
Both flights steal joy and sorrow and awaken sense.

The sparrows fly fast and true yet are caught in the spiders web.
The raven toil over the harvest of a desolate well,
And the dark threads of life tighten and tense.

O as the deep black night strangles it’s jewels,
The sunlight breaks down it’s black sorcerous spell.
The stars fade to dreams and leave naught but heat,
And two piles of bones, ordered and neat.

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