shapeshifter

Why so rigid my black winged fawn?

Have your butterflies flown away and left you in this endless dawn?

Your lake has a drought and your tongue so dry.

How you must wonder how your roots died as they turned to the sky.

Why are you most alive between the margins of memories and rhymes?

How you hunt me and how you hide...

So perfect in the solitude of your wonderful madness and I still wait for you even though you have long gone by.