Obsidian hawks
hang from lamp posts,
lining the Gothic
architecture of our hearts,
the shadows,
turning me yellowish
gray, leak out
life
in the strangest way.
The
silhouettes sway
and moan, listening
to the wind whisper
through their
hair, the stories
of dreams
being embalmed.
These lanterns want
to keep me awake,
longing in the retro-
red, belonging
to the sweet,
the concrete dead.
Bright star,
you look
like garbage
to me.
And these sickle
souls bleed
on everything
in between,
blue moons,
left with traces
of where their halos
used to be,
a halogen lamp
reverie.
Obsidian hawks
mark the page
where the ink
met the river
and decided to
run off,
saving room
for prayer,
or maybe another
layer of meaning,
something,
at least
seemingly true;
I wouldn't know,
but, vultures they say.