Our sunshine

we tend to forget to celebrate such small things that we see as flawed

Here's to the angel in black and denim
to the children with hearts of vile and venom

here's to the cats with no appetite
to the rival cousins who are never right

here's to the skies painted black and gray
to the bees and the birds in a sky in May

here's to the forgets and regrets of tomorrow
to the lights and the souls that bear no sorrow

but here's to the serpent in disguise
whose eyes are made of stone and ice

and whose souls are wrapped in twig and twine
but drenched, knee-deep in turpentine

and here's to the harps in the air of the night
and to the sunshine that shall bear no light

forever ours yet who to thank,
mustn't we appreciate ourselves?