Under the same sun and air
We are muzzled like ox as we tread out the grains
Our necks are stiffed like burdens of cattle,
In the flame grass, the oak, everywhere we go.
Under the fine rain, thick cloud, the chilly wind,
We listen to their whistles with the strokes of rod that refines our body,
As we are passing through our first death;
We stare at the birds flying by
Because they appear so free;
There are still words left unsaid
When we travel far than the calling sounds.

I am at the bottom of the birdcage
Just laying in the grit
Feeling snug and warm
Coz I'm a piece of shit

I'm at the bottom of the birdcage
Why don't you come and sit
Not one person will bother us
Coz they can't handle it

I'm at the bottom of the birdcage
It's where I spend my time
Alone in my thought no pardons sought
Smoking reefer so sublime

I'm sitting in this birdcage
But what no-one can see
For growing in this birdcage
Is my own poet's tree

Beyond these days in time and space,
when we have run our pilgrim race.
our soul, set free from mortal shell,
will rest a while, (devoutly dwell)

to pause for peace by sacred streams,
with breaking dawn's delightful dreams…
Until that Lord with flashing eyes
invades this planet’s sin-scarred skies…

to clothe us in immortal gowns,
with gold, replace our thorny crowns.
(Our bodies, buried out of sight,
He'll raise, in wonder's wingless flight.)

Christmas Blues

A bucket of water has more purpose than I.
I live, I breathe, though with a heavy sigh.

What is it that I am doing here
On this great and godless sphere?

This grand fest of immortal pain,
Oh I, some poor soul's greatest bane

I might not wish to go and find Death's lair.
Seek him out high and low, here and there,

But, were he to call my name

As loudly and as boldly as his own,
I might scream back an answer

With a near zealous tone!
Were he to come for my head