Humming Birdsongs in the Blight of Afterlife

In tempo – tempers flared, flagrant and masked
Statuary halls like bells of evening laughter
The children are empty, no songs, no presents
The parents are dull whips, wispy after-fire
On hallucinogenic threads, woven and climbing
There was a dual context to her lost journals
I thought you would find it and one day understand
It was not that I was able to rise to the occasion
But that I sought not to be misled
The furniture was bolted into the wooden plateau
All to mislead me, as if I did not suffer
As if I had some imagined responsibility
To endure the punishment for all human affairs
And all adroit human preparations in excusal and veteran birdsongs

And then I heard a Voice tell me not to stop
There is a passion worth pleading for in this prayer of disposal
Accentuated youth in down-fire rain
Pleached in the court where there are no appearances
No retribution, or admonition of dismissal
No forced masks, a denarius court
With mothers as witnesses
Leisure informal switch to derogatory nomenclature
Like the rain-ashes of birdsongs, so light
So prying for the magistrate to condemn after-laughter,
After-response, and after-inclusion of our lost woven journals
In the blight of our own shadows
Where we dare not press ourselves
Into the age of restoration