why do i feel caged
                                   —by the same fences, that was
               meant to make me safe.

snowflakes burn on the cheeks
filtering the clad of trees
with grey nostalgia underneath,

Mother said, "let's make
a scarf with those wings"
the commodity out of necessity

for the weather only permits
threads of white, to rest
as supine angel ghosts

remain like chalk pictures
of suns and dreams yet to be
on the street which colors fade

for she walks, with
a spool of feathers on her neck
wondering why,

she couldn't fly like everybody else.

Our efforts remain,
In landfills – incinerate,
Try reaching the sun.

suddenly all of the pens i own
are either gone,
empty,
broken,
or left alone
no amount of penniless pettiness
came from my mouth,
no mutters,
sobs,
nor silence left
to give,
forgive the narratives,
which lingers
inching
the tip
of thy fingers,
that holds restless
itching
to scab and release
what remains
in scars
the pus which ferments
on hatred and
the scent
burning cocoa beans and smoke
that knocks on my eyes
a blurry vision
despite
rose-tainted glasses,
the taste
of bitterness
in farewell.