Voices on The Wind

I hear you calling on the broken winds.

Honey eyes melting into sunrise,

Beauty collapsing under the pressure of

Volcanic plumes. Ash. Snow. Fallout.

.

It melts and I am left with a bloody peloton,

Hundreds of bodies piled high on asphalt,

Smashed into the cobblestones,

And trailing clotted clumps of flesh.

.

Summer arrives and the stench of disaster

Is unbearable for the worst cynicist.

Take the flame in hand, smoke a cigar,

And get over it.

.

Move on like the survivors and keep those

Glowing little dreams of peace in a jar.

Stare at the glass, close your eyes

And let it glow on the back of your eyelids.

.

Because the winter won't leave when you yearn

For warmth and the summer will burn through

Pale eyes when you daydream of the cold.

Just sleep. Succumb to the fatigue.

.

Go before lidded eyelids refuse to close.

Leave before the nuclear wind steals your breath

And scatters your words across dead empires.

Abandon the dreaming dead.

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Silver Serpent Books

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