inversion s tacked †in strata Pressed c oldly be neath Storm †c lo u ds †like † † † Slo th s † st r etch i n g † † ag a i n s t †the †s k y Hanging heavy †gr ay s ca le s across the mornings †b r e a t h
We weave tapestries Of the tales of our lives With strands of Father Time's beard; Monochrome scenes In shades of silver light And the darkest shadows Of the mind at midnight.
Tell me a story; An epic of glory As we sing and we dance Through the night
Making deals with devils As we pave the endless way With good intentions Trying to sell our souls to gods Whose needs Demean our hopes and dreams With schemes To hold each soul alone Under the light of their own morning...
Dreams bleed Like corpses of rainbows Streaking down contours Rolling over curves; The hills and valleys Of her weathered face. Time would tell her tale no more Her pages spread in chaos Scattered across the floor
He felt the most like himself Dangling below storm clouds A wink away from heaven Hanging on with clenched fists And wispy strands of floating smoke Like trails of silken thread (It was the only way To escape his own head)
We laid on our backs Looking up at the stars As their light pressed softly Against our chilled skin And an early Autumn wind Brushed along the edges of leaves (And whatever was left of Summer nights) Spilling thoughts of frosted meadows at dawn Into the September air.