sitting in place very, very still,
underneath the glimmer of the sky,
the liberals have arrived so don’t try to think,
I keep the strum of ruined heartstrings and pluck to a gateway bliss,
we all live and swim through sickness of strife as misfits,
pursue the gawking geese careening in the big blue sky,
look there, there we all point to the everlasting feast
the sheer of pretty pink and dripping orange marmalade skips a beat
I squeeze my knuckles so they go white, spending hours in the bright light,
oh how my lungs yearn for the touch of cold, cold sky breath,
caress the dazzling light which pierces through a curtain of death,
yet everyday spinal chords whistle out of tune
and painted carriers go out and dig out those buried runes,
so before falling, I look into irises and their missed faces
Yet, I only end up scratching the slippery opaque surfaces,
and those heartstrings render and contort, visions passing over the horizon
and those smudges of graphite I use to write are frightened,
leaving traces in the music I must have mistaken
as my own