Inspired by Cold Days from the Birdhouse by The Twilight Sad.

Little darkness,

Who shelters its wings from flower petals

Like a nightingale’s first song

Or scratched tables, bouquets of roses

Upon which stutters crimson moons,

Black suns

And the carousel of the night

To lead the ladybird to the riverside

Little darkness,

Wielding an angel’s reason in shaking hands.

That night the fireflies fled,

Beneath their ferris wheel she stood

Imagining the itch of their wings,

The hum of a species within shuttered jaws

Knowing only to fly, to fall

Through night’s necessary darkness

If they wish to be remembered

Like paintings weeping in the rain

Or like spiders spinning their story in dust

And twelve seats, the scent of chamomile;

For sale, watercolour skies and an angel’s rotting reason

In warpaint

A firework’s brushstrokes

Hauled into laughter’s arms,

Where ribboned bars barricade waves

The size of paper birds, who imagine a hand in theirs,

Sashes of seaweed

Like a child’s trophy, three words

To carry them into senseless oblivion

“Little Darkness,”

Who carries itself upon the clipped wings of daylight

Towards home