WEBVTT

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Night not the night
echoes, these words

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not words turnkey echoes.

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Dark ink on page, those legible,
prison a book isn't night,

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but night's color, this ink.

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Shackles sense to sense.

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Listen to my hand, this
prisonyard, full of song.

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This pond enchained, heaven,
in echo, but heaven broke free.

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Not this, not this
word, these words.

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No book can, as nothing
from nothing flee.

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I have no defense but one plea,
a wild innocence not ease,

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must sing the sparrow,
a convict, in my throat,

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no torn page will release.

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To tear the page is perjury,
and perjured song will cease.

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Every separation,
echo is a link.

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Every book a prison turnkey,
every prison a nest.

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