This melody playing tricks with your tongue
This porcelain piece of air, vibrations dancing through your hair
As you run to the meadow, that secret space
Then back behind the willow to your haunting place
Dangling dead flowers in the stream, drifting dark desires on daydreams
Far away in your mind from their stares
Those claustrophobic grand hall glares
That put you in your rightful spot with whispered weavings of what you're not
Till the swirling sky takes you right out
And you soar above their bloated bouts
And catch the hum of birds who sing of wires, wasps, and angel wings
For angels, you know, are talked of by folk
As birds talk of dragons, when high up they float
In those imbalanced sort of tones, daring to believe somewhere in their bones
Yet, of course, this talk of such impossible things
Should be saved, they would say, for the playground swings
And now you are grown and dignified, yet of course you now ran to do much more than hide
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