I am at the mercy of my soul,
the lineage of grass,the stirring corn.
I see no sorcery in these shapes,or,
images that will distort my attention.
Everyday I build another home
to house all the things you love about me.
I am the solitary place where you were lost
in the year of our need,when,
we kissed,and swore allegiances with white hot promises
pressed closely to our hearts
and sang like angels
while the birds of age
whose old dark plumes,
tacked,by the glue of blood and bone,
yet,whose wings still flutter,
trying to lift
off the cruel road,leading nowhere other
than away from our milk and honey'd land,
of sweetest beliefs.