Obsidian nights like these are turned into Aurora Borealis ones
and the forest winds sound just like a canary's interludes.
If you're paying close attention, the innocence of miracles is clutched
between the early gums of these toothless blessings.
YOU ARE READING
PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY
PoetryYour voice is the paint I take to the sky, splattering it all over, so they can all know you're nigh.
