Lark by Lauren Ebright

Least of all is you
When I list who I trust
When I consider what is true

When I consider what is true
the lark,
beating its daybreak wings against the cold, shutness
of a window
Looking out into the aurora light upon a shore
that is least of all,

When I list who I trust
Who, screaming into the field,
I am willing to Braveheart myself for,
content to end before I begin.
My death led in a revival
by the false prophet of your love.

Panning back from that cold and shut window,
before all the beating
all the quieting and the hope still unknown,
at the end of the long corridor that is this life,
an apparition ever present
and not ever present.

Belying the lark of my own heart, I reach for you
when I consider what is true.

I believe, least of all,
in you.


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