#42

Stop laughing at me, spiteful bird.

Quit drinking the colors
from my stained glass windows,
flying a rainbow across burning hillsides.

Flying is nothing more than swimming,
and you're a toothless piranha,
singing bird.

Laying on my back in the steeple,
a thought:
the sky turns to deep ocean
the further you lift into the atmosphere,

which makes sense, as my body
floats as if in the Dead Sea.

This sonar song from a drowning bird
as God is revealed as a pearl
in the bed of a shell, reflecting the light
of its own sea foam face of a God to worship.