Call the midwives from the country of your skull
To birth outlines of former incandescent lives.
Let the clouds droop down to graze
On towns taken and pillaged; forgotten and razed.
If the cradle doesn’t rock, it spins
To beat the devil over bottles of wine.
When hungry vines protrude, exert themselves, perchance,
There is little to attribute to in the vein of happenstance.
Here the valleys crumble, then collapse
Into the mouth of hungry seas. If to craft
The peaks of mountains leaves you twiddling your thumbs,
The gears have worn away and are petrified and dumb.
The child sleeps on in silent stupors
To exhibit, come daybreak, in one malignant screech.
When a flower may no longer dream of blooming season,
There is little to convince you that will appeal to reason.
Crown the fjords, flat and slim, as they dot
The eyes of bays fermented, yet which still refuse to cave.
If you will the sky to belt out its preliminary aches,
The rains may mellow worlds divided into catatonic flakes.
Nurse the babe with watercolours, pencils, too,
To quell the mind of terrors, of vice assumed in your likeness.
When the gales have stripped away what’s kept you from your healing,
You’ll feel the thunder of a heart that’s still intent on beating.