Like a skin made of wet lead
The weight of the clouds press down on him
He dreams he can stop the rotation of the earth
The ghosts watch as he lets go of the chair
The demons hide in darkness
A cup of coffee illuminates the world
She is eight years old and
Wears a dress woven of dreams
She smiles and the clouds lift into the sky
Her dress is missing a stitch
He will be it
On her palm like a tattoo, breathe
He has waited for her
She glows and the ghosts gather
The blanket is infinite and full of sorrows
The rotation stutters
No comments:
Post a Comment