in the prebird voices
shells of soul
venus
landscapes
golden goals
to more and tasks
obervers of an eye
they never ask
too shy
too shy
but do
and to
to fade those
holy times
those rhymes for you
in all their chimes
it asks
and asks
to ask the drink
more blankets
in their red they sink
a coptic optic dress
in banquettes
wonders
I confess
all their mess
their mess of red
is nearly close
is nearly dead
it lasts
and lasts
and into
optic bread
more feathers
like their masters said
to lay them all
in final beds
and coptic dreams
is what she said
ambrosia
chalice
here to hold
it seems
it’s written
into bold
gold and fields
more fields of joy
and
to awake
their
masters‘
toys