Luyện nghe bài hát Crowquill

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