I am fretted with fever,
shedding my feathers again.
The timbres of the tongues I speak
have once again gone flat:
wanton words in want of weight
are but beautiful sounds without meaning,
tumbling from my teeth
to click gently to the floor.
“Give me a second chance,”
is all that I can say.
I wash myself in gold and ice;
I pick the dirt from my fingernails and rise.
From a snapshot of my madness, I may recover –
reweaving my suncatcher dreams,
repainting the lines on the road that I follow.
I have no excuses,
nothing to rise to your defense,
and I’m sorry.