Like birds, my hands flew from 7th story
Windows welcoming ills of city air.
Watching the pavement blend with the faces of pedestrians.
Again, tomorrow I’ll open windows
To stumble through a different scent,same scenery.
Phone rings. Mother’s voice slides
The conscience from its compartment.
Hands return blistered with blood same color as my skin.
Our crowns blended with the pavement, our angels watched with patience.
We practiced religion we knew nothing of and clung to it like childhood.
Unaware of the potential for twisted metal to jerk us back to that innocent place
before being sifted through waves, tossed with the thorns, and left to examine our self made crowns.
Out windows I remember
joy stirred, sights from suns
my stars rested at night
Far from their here.
days pivot on eggshells
justify my backslides
with learning curves
and hidden words form
lumps in throat.
Tomorrow may be over the sun
tomorrow has no new debt to pay,
uncertainties rest easy this morning.
Once the mind conceives that it will always be overcome by the passions of this skin it will continually revert back to its old ways.
Where the light fades ends meet in a revelation too heavy for ignoring a hell. Fear your knowing as you acknowledge your placement among the universe, a natural tendency to remove oneself from negative sums. When light his to burn through the covers you won’t be able to escape the morning, not even within the depths of the dreams.