Compromising fates, they said to me as I weave

I want nothing more than to heave

The gruel the mother sent to me for breakfast

Yet the smell of pineapple comes from my skin

And so I know that I can begin again

 

I don’t have to sit and weep my tears of oil

Black as the sea in the utmost turmoil

As I see the ducks falling around me

I cant help but cry for their fates

Yet my tears add to the worsened state

 

I must act now, for the storm grows colder

Hungry for the music that I am

But my fingers are sure, and my voice is pure

I catch the birds as they fall from the sky

And begin to fight the origins to the answers of Why