There is a Staircase...and there are Stars

As a blackbird upon a wire
my soul softly treads upon star staircases,
will the shooting stars just always be satellites
spying nation paranoia until another and another?

Any fall would be similar as before
so please leave a mattress upon the floor

There is an attic which houses unwritten poems
splayed pillows across the most silent of beds
dream a little dream of my arms around your tender neck
tongue each Cymraeg metaphor deep into my throat

And there is an attic
where a svengali could teach me how to conclude poems
and tender lips could always wait for me