Muted Aviary
Pleasant voices
I adore them
they are somehow tuned
those
mist negotiators
in half of strength
announcing your personal capitulation
pleasantly
holding cards laid in front of you
you
infatuated with spin of his tone
by consent taking the place upon his palms
became
a
Thumbelina
nop
he won't become your swallow
even though
inclines to the south
you didn't even pull yourself together
he scraped of that pleasant color of voice
those pieces
dispatched in absence
by testament have sealed the truth -
no more pleasant sounds
they are all deported to the south
story in the story
statement
my story and his history
one story
his story devoured my,
chewed
and
spit it out
sometimes it is happier solution simply
embrace the tree
either way, my hands are too small for woods
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