The shame of a dog
stirred by the rightness of words.
They were written in the sky like
I love you I love you I love you,
blown away to be written again
somersaulting in this inevitable sweetness
that everyone wants to lick from someone else's lips,
so sweet and impossible that even history tried to rewrite itself
rubbing a stale eraser to smudge words that meant something,
at some point.
And all for freedom. 
Some tantalizing non thing.

Would anything be free,
Would death be,
Would silence or sleep or solitude be,
No. 
Our skeletons are solid and our souls stolen
our movements dictated by maybe the sun or moon or past.
And oppressed by the sky
we are only winged so we may pollute the air with sadness like
I love you I love you I love you.