Letting Go A Bird In Hand

It took 6,000 lies for a tinny truth,
Then covered in silk and understood.
And my lips bent a crease in those words you wrote
That similar sleep in the sentences you spoke,
Faint reflections on clear waterfalls
Dissolved into crystals buried deep in time
Older than the Holocene,
And every stage that did precede,
Older than the trinity
That put divinity into the oldest waters,
Once murky from untold time;
Its remnants now fermented into blood red wine,
Like the last drop down a red clay ravine
Whose glassy bed had been tested and broken,
Seven years it seems.
In any luck - a silent dream, versed and free.
Endless.
Hidden in eternity,
For every stream gets lost at sea,
Willingly.