praxhe to starchild

starchild,

impatience from inside out
and to have tried in every situation to be

everything-- amber glare on the wall,
square evening a few minutes

and no more as from inside
the bronzing heart we've waiting centuries,

sensitive and slave-ear'd though never
overly the desperate-- flute

to the men of the blistered drum
we've known miscommunication, salt-wind

and the letter sent and never returned--
we've written ourselves to shadows,

walks in the park, the birds,
and the crusts of bread on a cluttered desk.

-praxhe

ps. go in however you know
is best, words from the wing and more

from the insecure-- nervous habits
unto heaven as i've nothing else.