Tell her why my skin does fly,
Lifted above rims of pain.
Jolted, and squeezed,
thus wrangled glass,
I’d sing beating my cow drums with my thumbs.
Heaving low and high,
The cicadas on Cicero,
Blackbirds,
Caged birds,
Little birds like me
Scanting,
Let the dew catch her blade of grass.
Watch the wind whirls her summer’s haze
Tell my sister,
She knows why I sing.
Krissy Mosley Ministries 
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