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Some words on the flight pattern
Hot steam rises
ghostly from similar rooftops
in the village
I clean my gunshot wound
with soft white stalkings
while eerie cello scales
reap through
the dead stillness of the otherwise quiet
room
through sour hot air
underneath my breath and
the ceiling I pray for a
smooth pale girl to weightlessly
float to my bedside
I pray for you
delicate freckles bravely
shielding your perfectly sculpted
cheeks from the harmful views of
blizzard windows and the
closet terrors that any
twilight brings
let my eyes from
miles and miles and miles
and miles away be your fluorescent
glowing vanilla candles or
drops of rain from the sky
when your heart and brain
are a forest fire
the warm silence of your skin
will forever feed my salvation
with hearty meals of promise
after a long day
of waiting.
