the tea kettle is whistling.
it s the only thing
in this room with life.
the steam blooms
into a phantom flower,
a ghost most lost.
dead air and unpaid bills,
I m a winter wind trapped
on a shipwrecked room.
it s a long walk through fire.
i m just another dog outlasting the rain
and this world is made for us dreamers.
there s no finish line and the quiet i fled
is the quiet i return to
that asks nothing
and offers everything
and watching the light die across the floor
it comes unexpectedly, this world
is a hellish place staring me down,
but every so often
i have to laugh at the madness
that mirrors my heart. after all,
that should have broken me,
i m still here.
suddenly something stupidly beautiful
appears at my window,
a bird
and it is the ache of a wild, fleeting art
that keeps my heart beating.