Golden Silk Bird
The thread is a brilliant red
Coiled at hand yet often misled
By the golden silk bird
Swaying above the moonlit
Ever turning, like a revolver’s cylinder,
The breeze directs a waltz among the stars.
A snap, a gasp, a minstrel gone rogue,
Dipping their toes before taking a long soak
A golden streak weaving through the darkness.
Plunging into the veil of eternity,
Thread forever soaring yet coil in hand,
The revolver briefly pauses
Before welcoming the dawn.