I want to sing in flights of us–
not from this tuneless sob
you call instrument and I call broken flute;
not from this stave that stalls, half-crafted
you call talent and I call wasted;
I want to joy in you–
not sit and sift ashes
you call collateral damage and I call evidence
not to blame, but identify the bird bones
you call phoenix and I call birthless.
There is no arising for this us
you would name after legend.