In the sky
the birds fly,
fleeing this land, for this land is dying.
They fly south, to the deserts and the rainforests,
Places indefinitely lively.
But in the spring, they will come again,
back with a flurry of feathers and a burst of heat.
Bringing life with them, from the southern places.
Life that will last us till October comes again.
the winter makes me so happy
the snow hanging in the trees
the cold biting at you
i love it
oh Icarus, you poor thing.
fell in love with the sun, the sky-
paid the price, i suppose.
why do we always pay the price for love?
Orpheus, lonesome poet,
lost his love because he wanted to tell her they'd made it.
In my attic I keep my heart.
I hold it there, safe amidst pillows, blankets and childhood stuffed animals.
When I make things, I break off a piece of my heart,
and sew it into pillows,
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