Raw in the wound
black crows circling

pink morning clouds
rays of the Sun
gunslinging through them

coarse in the muscles
twisting into complex sailor knots

steel beams falling down in Michael Douglas eyes.

Scorched in the wound
all outlets blocked

pink morning clouds
writing her name

explosions of cry
screeching in flight.

All my dreams
melting air

shackled wings
  refuse to stop

all my feathers
stabbing Sun.

Nothing is as it seems.