This love is turning to blood and tears instead of milk and honey, a bastard child of pain and hopelessness.
It still comes to see me, a yellow baby bird. "Not now, soon, it is coming, I will be yours", I sing to it softly, when no one comes. It flies off, satisfied.
I speak to god but the sky is empty. I scream to the night and the stars are silent. I whisper to him but his eyes are mirrors.