Tilted awnings made of newspapers
it’s a world where courage
Became the sleeve and the axe was left beneath the tree
In September the memories were sidewalks but now we walk
Barefoot in a cold puddle of distance
drawing sculptures with Our reflections stringing telescopes like stars kissing
past the Midnights yearning of bodies
knowing a breath of soul.
I am the paper that has stood against a wind catching cuts Through the blood
collecting the hearings of what once was
Behind the door of bridges.
Stay here in the divinity of window
Where promises are paintings made of permanence and ink that
Won’t be blown away by a whistle.
I see frowns trailing mazes
In skies made of tears
I am wading in the ruins
of cities built from Fear.
There’s a manic rainfall in the curtain caused by silk wrapped by Limbs
toward a rainbow in a forest curated of men. We have forgotten The reasons
and lasts became firsts
the thirst is dried and even
That we do not know.
Find me a plane window in the flight of breath
Where fog and oxygen can shake hands where the fading of your silhouette
Is a Kayak I know will come back.
Brush your lips as a tourniquet to a
Soul whose been eavesdropping too much
on a bitter world.
The sticks have passed the shores
and the sea side is crumbling like arms
And all we have is the stickers of a youth that laughs back as a gem
Under an afternoon tease of sun.
Here there’s more strings to turn knots
Into bows to turn sorrow into knowing.
The bodies in the backpacks are
As heavy as these souls
I wear on my eyelids everyday
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