My Mind is of the Forest, wide and everlasting,

Yet subtle in its dominance; its same frailty—

At Wind’s command the Trees do bow

As if the Forest’s fickle flesh was these.

The flexing branches wave praise and speak

With such unimportant urgency,

But the fear of Wind takes them back

To unaffected lengths, not free.

Conversations fill the air—from left and right—

The Trees speak rebellion, but only find

Twisted tongues and roots and death beyond;

A cool whisper feeds a scared mind.

Still, the smell of scorching fills the air,

From above the bleak canopy

Come shrieks—no: songs—of rebel warfare;

From the Cardinal, the Bird of Fire, or Words you see?

Its chirps are knives, its wings a hurricane

Of persuasive flames and stronger wind

Than Wind itself.

Albeit the Cardinal needs a spark

And makes its home in hollow Trees,

Its duty is to—and for—Free Air

High above the wilted leaves—of hypocrisy.

So my mind will not let Trees overwhelm,

For to Wind they serve and grow and die;

No, for me, no force of false strength qualms

My weapons—the Cardinals—from the sky.

Let them speak, my mind’s fire to the clouds;

Trees, do not forsake the truth for comfort,

For in comfort there is tomorrow,

But in that tomorrow there is no hope—no fire of the sort.

My Mind is of the Forest, amidst the gnawed skeletons,

Yet contact with Tyrant Wind does nothing but spread

Fire and Cardinal Song

Until my Heart is fed.