Thursday, December 29, 2011

065: Little sun / Runic

I roam the outskirts of the living world,
with postcards of the petulant and vile,
on subway walls and empty roads,
settled behind by fragile snow.

My fat moon, in the belly of the night,
I slowly sleepwalk below granite skies
and flicker forever to flame for the sunroof,
vested to the sun that blinks through the vortex.

It shoots photon arrows to shatter the ice,
shy nuclear heart, brighter with every revolution,
a trace of wings, brings comfort from the spirit
and ever so often, a savior's sword.

And in the wake of its leave, gradients of ash,
crowds chatter, like grinding, in foreign tongues,
clouds of doubt fester and shower the fear
that maybe the hands of light are just lips of a ghost.

Circus pet struggling 'round the axis of null,
sun in my head, blood loss bleeds into the golden path.
I will wait at the gates of dawn all the while
tucked away, the runes sleep in the darkness.