I drink in Father Time’s tragedy
Of languid, troubled sky where
Everlasting sunsets bleed their
Malicious songs into my vaporized soul
And I am a paper moon that burns
Into your seductive flames.
Feathery fantasies drive me into
Secreting veins of fainting mimes,
Empty rooms blow through tearful eyes,
And glazed trees lead justified cremation
Into shouting winds who burn eclectic
Stars into deterrent minds.
For I am the brush of sage
That corrodes salty wounds
With sweeping lines.
Red rivers become the nuance
Of resisting fields, but my tampered bell
Shall surmise depleted valves of
Heavens soulful light.