A Little Bird, Pt. 2

Born a peasant mountain lion Laying in the snow Find your brother not moving Push him with your nose Watch him falling from the mountain Far away from home The birds find the lion on the ground Drag him to the farm A sky bleeds from the lion's mouth As they cross the barn Find the old farmer crying Staring at the pelt He stares out How sad not to remember a face How sad not to see it everyday When you close my eyes, to love someone for life And no longer have it memorized There was a woman who spoke to me Her beautiful voice and poetry I took it, committed it to memory But it was never real I pretended it to be How sad not to hear music bleed from the streets Every morning Every morning The past bleeding from my brain Every morning "I have seen milk from a thistle, utters, the breast of a mother, almonds, coconuts, and oats Kids kissing and swimming in rivers A million mailboxes with letters dripping blood The face of a friend go pale while lying in my limbs The bluest shores and the greenest gorge Weeping at the beauty of this earth I have grown old and I have no plans I have seen life come from everything that blows in the wind I have seen life end from everything that crows in the wind And stays still And that's some awfully real blood That's a terrifyingly real pelt Under this hurtful, piercing sun I never knew death was so real And that's some guilt…."