Truth.

a scribe
like the angels.
only better,
cause you're real.
Flesh that bruises,
and hands that know
the texture of
a sycamore.
lift up your
broken song,
embracing night.
wish for simplicity
maybe,
but don't ever take
the easy way out.
your time has
come
to speak.
words drop
into an old glass
bottle.
A complex fragrance
of mountain night
and calculated risk.
a scribe
like the angels,
only better.
your time
has come
to speak.