Luyện nghe bài hát Crowquill

Nothing's so lucid as the promise of dreams, but these we found just make me sleep.
nothing quite so pure as the written word my dear, so lets have ourselves a little poem.
Until the will to loses urgency.
Our animal in print is so blase.
Its about the tower, at the golden hour.
Angel of the climbs here steel cage staircase spine, angle of desire.
the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung.
Is it the rising roof line that me feel so swallowed whole,
or the way my barely pricks the sky,
the as a century's worth of virgin's blood that's passed through my longing veins,
scheming to convince my aching mind that pleasure's got nothing on the of need.
Nothing's so purile as meter and when you can't see the ground from that ledge and this perch is so far, far from the nest.
Gravity doesn't grant me the of failure my bough never breaks
I don't stumble into
so I climb and I carve my initials in the with that feather I found but its all so contrived.
My genes didn't bless me with the foresight of a sage but I know how this end, in apologies and ink on the page.
A slowly constructed crow quilled of my spirit to all of you,
black ink scars the board, so hot-pressed, pristine and pure.
A slowly constructed of "to tremble",
as base as a bridge in a and less like the poem that I promised you.
Nothing's so as haiku-detat on sidewalks in white outlined chalk,
all I've got is ink smeared lines.
With our in harmony, the offering, of a crow quilled threnody.