I can hear it tapping on the bedroom door of my conscience,
a silent wind that's playing Louis Armstrong on a broken record player.
There's an orange rain spilling from a street lamp into my bedroom through a un-curtained window.
I lay in my bed, and though I wished I was dead, all of my thoughts were turned to you.
I can feel your haunting claws embracing my body like a desire too deep for the sea, and yet, I'm alone tonight.
You never liked how I turned my body into a book, but you never complained.
I'am a damned good story to read.
A mystery novel written by a long dead author.
The orange rain drops 10 feet from the window and lands sideways on my wall.
It drains into the cracks of my closet door frame, and sets a light of God from within.
Soft cotton blooms under my sleepy carcass and folds between the crevasses of my form, and I become a moaning chrysalis with a fire set in it's chest.
Maleficence and wine swarms like wasps above my head and they're both drowning in the city light, the orange light.
The city light, the orange light.
The city light, the orange light.