There is a weight to being alive,
A density of songs and claws,
A flock of beaks and broken barbs:
It clings to flight, it grips it tight.
The earth will take the sycamore.
The sky will take the sycamore.
Its bark and leaves will feed and fall,
And life will take the sycamore.
This gravity of slowing blood;
The pressure buzz within the ears;
The dissipating breath and twitch:
It gives its all, it takes its toll.
The weight will keep the moon in tow.
The weight will hold us in its flow.