Paper Locks

On the contrary,  
the world is quite dark, Mr. Sun.  
In the day, there are still shades,  
and they hold to the night.  
There is no place where there is only light.  
The heart doesn't gleam that strong.  

On the contrary, Face of the Overhead,  
I have never not seen  
and still the blind  
catch flashes of light little so often.  
The stars bubble up from a frothy Milky Way of clouds  
that don't quite cast stone like the earthling ones do.  
Color me impressed  
that there is still a road at all  
under the ones I'm driving.  
There's spark inside the dew.  
 
I'll go on. Flip the petals right over,  
blossom out of the cigarette butt.  
There is no one smiling here,  
so give me a word.  
What flavor is the gloss of your chapstick?  
The same that brims through and over the sclera?  
In the stead of potion magics of health points?  
I'll never return to our non-existence.  
Nor your ailing father. Lives are bigger than we know.  
It was one version of existence disowned by the eggs in the hamper.  
The translation of haploids into WI-Fi units of the brain  
from which I signal distress to a frozen village, a misshapen home.  
Tell them that crepuscule is worse  
than a night or day at all.