She cried.

Her blood wasn't oxygenated enough.

It was too rich;

steepled from her veins 

in a room all too quiet.

I never wanted to hear that sound.

 

She wanted to fill those empty

empty, empty 

pages of the room

with the songbird making nest

in her warbling throat

but those uninked pages suffocated it.

She carries its desiccated husk

in a cavern

in her chest

next to the pigeonhole with her pulpy heart.

No song, no more

no composer but me--

a bastard's bardwiting for martyrdom's glow.

 

The room was too quiet and 

she filled it

with blue black godless screams. 

Sobs rendered blood and body useless

bifurcated lung from lung

seam from seam

down her sides.

 

Sometimes my head is sterile and quiet

and then I think

(rich blood)

of the day the songbird died.

And she fills that too.