ahomeforandie

The night comes stalking down, Impeaching the shadows in a moments slur The train has to go somewhere, The bearded trees scream to be clothed As if the flowers could endure the summers’ patchy breath Cascading downwards is the silk of the corn Eroding the sky Polluting the oxygen The mute man cries, What could impede the steady current? Curb its aspirations Lay down its ripe hopes Then cut off its hair Why so greasy Half a dozen’s hardly plural? They masquerade around Pleased as their poisoned punch They asked the children to retain their scorn Don’t spend it all at once Ticket to the milking farm? A dollar

i sleepwalked long distances before i came upon a dozen angels selling their wings on the side of the road. the faint glimmer of hope on their faces that today would be the day goes unseen by the few late night drivers; this night is too dark. i tell them to try the city, they would find many many many people there. they don't understand, or don't wish to. these angels speak in so many different tongues but none matched with mine. it was lonely. one particular angel takes pity on me and tries to give me his wings, free of charge, from what little i understood, but no matter what position i turned they wouldn't fit. he shrugged a

I rattle a leather pouch full of dark charms, this Tuesday. It sounds like shackles, or silver bullets: dumb trinkets, tired and sore. I cannot help but wonder what could have led to this kind of osteoporosis? In the distance a rocket wounds the air, and your atmosphere is gone: a lonely dot on the horizon – The only sunlight it receives are the rays of light left over in my mind.

Before I even landed, the city of clouds told me of a place full of African tulips, each petal as deep as the lowered sun