Out of this world and through burned storybooks
Vespers and vapors of death-rattle breaths
Turn to birth cries only mists can hear
Through the chasm of her eyes
Like dark pits of asphalt
On a rainy night road
Wet and open.
We’re ghosts to a passing plane of shifting lives
Where broken glass crunch like egg shells
Under leather boots with steel toes
Worn by long torso-less patrolmen
Speaking in evangelical tongues
And slipping
The Silver-screen silhouettes telling me sweet nothings
And invisible people play moonlight sonatas
With skin-covered cellos and djembes
Near waterfalls and deep valleys
Of green and prosperous dreams
And life.
Animals to the metropolis, Human to the paper jungles—
Controlled, creative chaos next to whimsical
notorious passivity; it’s eclectic like tea.
Where do these words take us?
Where do worlds take you?
Everywhere and nowhere
But mostly
Anywhere.