Burn down my hills
I am not black but white
I am a bad habit
kicked from a listening blue
there is a sky on my back
the grief of an old poem
I have displaced my crackle
this crow I wear inconsistently
manages the rain
wet falls only on his wings
the world is tired of such birds
as this - that cannot fly
I am not black but white
I am a bad habit
kicked from a listening blue
there is a sky on my back
the grief of an old poem
I have displaced my crackle
this crow I wear inconsistently
manages the rain
wet falls only on his wings
the world is tired of such birds
as this - that cannot fly
... please make yourself at home ... 