he thinks
they are perfect
with their messy little lives all
triangle shaped and he
conducts slow ceremonials for them
those who blazed like wild fire and
burnt out too young
he records every broken tooth
every time they cry out in pain or joy
and presses it between the walls
of his empire of blue
he treasures them whilst they last
his memento mori
they are tragic, broken, wingless birds
and he loves them for it