Luyện nghe bài hát Crowquill

Nothing's so lucid as the promise of dreams, but these pills we just make me sleep.
There's nothing quite so pure as the written word my dear, so have ourselves a little poem.
Until the will to speak urgency.
Our animal 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.
the wrought iron, one by one, wrung by wrung.
Is it the rising roof line makes me feel so swallowed whole,
or the way my body barely the sky,
the same as a century's worth of virgin's that's passed through my longing veins,
scheming to my aching mind that pleasure's got nothing on the miracle of need.
Nothing's so purile as meter and rhyme when you can't see the ground from ledge and this perch is so far, far from the nest.
Gravity doesn't grant me the privilege of failure my bough never
I don't into anything
so I climb and I carve my initials in the bark with that 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 constructed crow quilled confession of my spirit to all of you,
black waterproof ink the board, so hot-pressed, pristine and pure.
A slowly manifestation of "to tremble",
as base as a bridge in a song and less like the that I promised you.
Nothing's so lurid as haiku-detat on sidewalks in outlined chalk,
all got is this ink smeared lines.
With our voices in harmony, the offering, of a quilled threnody.