The windswept yard has gone home to where night sleeps.
The trees salutes the empty sky with their tongues.
I am a doorknob turning up & down, waiting to be opened.
It is prayer that feeds the windows their tears.
Even the birds are giving their feathers to the curtains.
What is it to dream? the chair asks the empty table.
The long corridor lengthens into discarded snake skin
& a finger tickles the violin's naked limbs.
I want to laugh with the leaking kitchen sink
& all the rats are wet like sex & thirst.
I have an umbrella but is rainfall not a way to cry.
Do you ever wonder if clouds are softer than cotton
& why no one picked them to feed the looms.
I used to dream of crows
& I watched them cackle like heaven finds me funny.
& my smile is brittle.
I work hard to get it from side to side in the mirror.
Is that why the mirror is shy when alone?
I once had a lover who asked me what did i do with ten years.
I had no answer.
For ten years my room led back into my hands; a magic trick
& when i opened nothing but dust.
Yet is dust not the only traveller that remains in the past?
Is it not the only journey that never ends?
There is silence under the unlit security light.
Every nocturnal thing is out, i am one of them
& yes, these wings are broken angels trying to rise.
Yours always,
Osahon (warpedpoetic)