March 18, 2026Poem
They look at the sky
lossnaturemusicpoliticstimeidentity
They look at the sky
Warm bodies
Packed together
Marinating
Topped and tailed
There is always
Safety in proximity
Soft flesh
Hot to the touch
Shooting stars
That might be
Missiles
Fall to earth
In a shower
Of golden rain
Phosphorescent gleaming
Nobody listens
To music
Anymore
Ears are tuned
To the sound of thunder
The tinkle
Of broken glass
Everything is covered
In a layer of dead skin
Gentle hands
Brush it off
Goosebumps appear
With a shiver
A moment of pleasure
Can last an eternity.
Nobody knows
The truth of it
The ease of release
The shortness of life
No one breathes easily
Beneath the canopy
Waiting for deliverance
Even the clouds
Avoid the cracks
In the ceiling
There is nothing
To write home about
There is no poetry.
In the morning
Black crows will fly
Into the sun.