a baby brought by the ides of December
in the gentle winds, curls of snow like mother's hair
a million wings bading me goodbye
left on the doorstep to suffer the cold
saved before the icy spikes could impale

a carved out little matchbox
soothed by the bathing light
and I reap what I sow
and I breathe like I write

flowers blooming in the cracks of the floorboards
in the abandoned church in the decaying part of town
and I play, and I sing, and I sleep
and I run, and I dance, and I weep

a feral child cursed with the blood of the divine
father, what are those voices that in the night so loudly whine?