Piers Faccini Strange Is The Man
fast to the edge
close to the south
the remains of the sky
are woven into shrouds
broken and wild
charcoal in black
the promise of rain
is swollen in the clouds
strange is the man free in his heart
strange is the man unchained at last
clear is the sap
under the bark
carried from the root
it opens the bud
dry is the tongue
cracked at the mouth
he trembles in thanks
as he drinks from the cup
strange is the man free in his heart
strange is the man unchained at last
over at the seam
red to the vein
he's whispering soft
all the names of the dead
laughing to himself
unbound and set
now the wind is his pillow
and the skies are his bed
strange is the man free in his heart
strange is the man unchained at last
