The Lark

There lived a single story bird,
whose hallowed halls dropped pomegranate seeds
upon the ground
of the Holy Land.
The contraband eruption
could not
disrupt the coming of tomorrow.
Milking the streets and churning
the smog
non-GMO effervescence
is born out of possibilities
Something like you'd wish
withering until the flowers
fall to the grassy nook
and the pencil tree stops producing
Willingness
becomes
obsolete.
Tinker toys and magic spells
that wished for a way back to the Holy Land
Oh, Holy Land.
All the growing trees
and honey bees
are on their knees
begging for forgiveness.
It's a sin to be good
It's a sin to be bad
It's a sin to be beautiful
It's a sin to be had
All the young boys don't understand the feelings
that hit their pillows at night
for bright and bold
is getting old and dark


Maybe that bird
That pomegranate story bird
Maybe he was a lark.