Songs have souls...
Like how spirits lift themselves without wings.
My body becomes home for goosebumps
Whenever the choir cut themselves
Into fragments of frail lyrics.
The blood in my head is a kind of music
Something deep like the intuitions of a mermaid
Who lost her beauty to a shipwreck.
Something soothing to bruises and wounds.
Even with broken strings of guitars,
Lost keys of organs and bent drumsticks.
There is music coated in my platelets-
Submerged in fluids but breathing fine.
I'm speaking in the language of wind
Because I know how weak the choir's trees
Can thrust into the ventricle of the earth.
I'm speaking in the language of water
Because I know how hard their limbs will limp
When they swim through the rivers of rhythm
And I'm speaking in the language of fire
Because I know how far they can walk
When rain beats the sun to their heads.
I am more than what the choir sing;
I am the music of the gods.
Genre: seven heavens: