When that Saturday burned our Sparrow

When time is a burden
I catch the lament dangling
from your lips,

and in that swelter,

I gulp down a
winter of parched smiles
and water downed frowns;

cold and filling
nourished yet greedy
I wrap a star-dusted tourniquet
around the wound of your
dissipating grace,

may it, slowly seep
into the garden of our lies
and bloom a fountain
to feed our neglected forever

and please I implore,
leave me, a morsel
of your Sundays clarity

to bury in my Monday's shrine,

for Tuesday sits upon scarlet wings
in the exhale of my wounded rise.

another blown calypso
into the belly of black
I feast on the wedded funeral
where gypsies pillage Thanatos’s
creeping battalion and revel at
the height of their falling pride.