(this)
is the thing with hollow bones,
singing every song of stories untold

(it dreams of ashy grey sorrow and wide-ocean foam, dreams of dead growing meadows and not enough freedom to roam)

(this)

is the thing without feathers whole,

quiet and slow-moving and drifting too low.

(it dreams of drowning blue-purples and endless black sinking alone, dreams of falling and falling and forgetting to find home)

(this)
is the thing with limbs overgrown,
inking portrait and portraits of painting unknown.

(it dreams of crippled and heavy and water drenched stone, dreams of breaking to pieces like seeds never sown)