rubyparker93

I may carry my voice on white-crested wingtips but I refuse to take the names of birds. My throat is not a desert with smoldered star limbs in place of sand, not a stone for you to overturn and mark with gentle cloud prints or leave in the mud to be perforated by bright moss. My song is not made to be thundered like a body on the wind, to be bellowed by the jagged mouths of some distant, forgotten jungle. It is made to slide along the edges of twenty burning suns and rise like a halo of newfound breath from the crevice which splits earth and sea. To break open like the young, wet-winged dove born of a glorious mud which cracks mountains wi