holy breath spills from the carpel of white lily petals, a gift for the hymn from the angel's trumpet! i take your song and i play it but it doesn't taste so holy against my lips— at first i think it's me. at first, i regret the serenade of my premature hymn.
but it isn't my hymn! it's your melody, it's your lyrics, it's your honeyed air!
and the song ends. my tongue tastes too sweet to be holding your truths. there is a star in your eye that takes this secret and burns it. you don't want your truths to be held; they don't taste as sweet as this.
still, from the angel's trumpet, comes another hymn. another star in your eye tells me you are glad to hear it, a promise you will chant these words as morning songs and lullabies. you take this truth and you burn it, but this time it turns into another star, hanging bright in your glittering little skies.
your windows are painted the wrong color but i don't mind.
how could i? i helped you paint them.
