detangles in the cusp of summer wind.
The tap of green needles
clash against iron screens
coated in a strangers mistakes.
My wake has no invitation,
except that sleep is now a past
time
that hides near monsters
under my bed.
China dolls smile on shelves,
illuminated
by bolts of light
That grow in triangular angles.
They radiate in speeds
faster than bullets
or blinks that keep me awake.
The cloudless sky is dark
except for a light
that shapes itself
in my fear,
in the shadow of my legacy
that God has scorned upon the middle class.
Silence is lost in a tick tock
of a roaring firmament
that takes my grip with no intention
of ever letting go.
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