Migratory Patterns

You do not know, so I suppose
In some aspect every flock of terns that fly
South when my mouth opens to speak
Is a lie;

A murder of crows crowding
Serene ocean skies with cimmerian concrete impressions,
I am buried in what I know

In what you believe to be honesty
Is absolutely otherwise and I am unsure
If an apology is needed or if a confession is necessary
Because you’ve always recognized pink
As being my favorite colour