Bowerbird Bacchanal

I am rising, I’m done fighting to be small
no dark hands will make me a shadow on their wall
all this silence has made a skeleton of me
I am rising, bones are rattling
build a bower, bound with blue and shiny things
all around her lair of hooks and bells and rings
only beauty and the absurd and the divine
may peruse me, may pay their dues to what is mine
oh life you’ve tried to make amends
with sunsets wide and humble men
but I take back now my loose ends
and bind them tight
to make the right kind
of kindling
to light a fire with
so let’s burn this, let this become our bacchanal
fire and furnace, a pyre of words old and banal
light ignited — the likes of which I’ve never seen
line by syllable burned clean
of what was said and what was heard
do not be bound and burdened by those words
of what was done the unsung hurt
do not be ground and girded by those words
we’re stronger when we let ourselves be heard