There was a sky light in our summer house

And each night

As the stars began to paint themselves,

I would rise inbetween the

wooden beams on our roof

and think that

a coffin might be safer than my bed frame.

 

Hopelessness is an inkwell for

The empty sheet of paper

I stretched out and laid against the sky

each night as I begged the moon:

“Let me paint you a picture-

Evern if the colors gurgle unsteadily out of my tendons and a

Guards’ footstep

At buckingham palace

Has to stand against the symphony of a

Hummingbirds’ wing-beat-

Please.”

 

Is there a somewhere above the sky

Where all the unfair

Is buried?

I believe that somewhere past direction

Trees can dance through the town while they make oxygen and

I can breathe-

Again.

 

Up there it is honest.

Even if the clouds are indeed,

Wisps of rot sliced off of

Our somber faces-

Everyone knows that honesty will always be

Beauty.

 

Someday we will live that.

Past the racing cars and racing hearts

Always trying to get “anywhere but here”

People will stop making false promises and

Will never “barely make it” again.

 

Yet I suppose sometimes we dream on stars that-

Have already burned up.