The burning coal in these charcoal lungs
Widows a flame from the wind chimes
Outside my window pane, flickering.
Silence bores a less-than hollow heart
Inside brittle bones as my caged mind
Withers away like stardust falling
Into nothing— like desolate gravity.
My fickle cloud of smoke breathes
In me a shallow morning full of
Pulling strings and crooked wings.
There are many things that fly
Like lost doves on a snowy evening,
Trembling amongst themselves on
Fragile ice held only by a wiry thread.
Gray skies fill the air and it
Looks like smoke and fences.
Quiet amber resides in oceans
Churning slowly with the hands of time,
Washed away and dwindling in vacancy.
Changing leaves are evergreen,
Still and slow yet quick and brash
Like time itself— all cold emerald
And warm sapphire turning into
A wasteland of crumbling rubies.
All desolate and forlorn, so much so that
It seems I've forgotten how to fly away.