When Birds Die
In what ways could the sun eat the sky?
In an auburn-radiant shade, cloaked in sifting haze?
Harboring mahogany howls, slowly fading crimson-cloudlines?
Beating blood orange beams of sun death consume your vision;
to butcher your former attention; mindless death—ignoring individualism.
Eat me like you eat skylines
Before my mind is mossed
in patterned anxieties of my owner’s deadlines.
Brilliant poet of silence and scattered bird flight,
Eat me in a roaring red blaze.
Dreading the end is comedy
because my work collar chokes me blind
to the burning sunrise we desire
in mornings we wake to quaking hellfire,
When spires fall and money rots,
Where birds die,
But not from gunshots.