Wings

Standard

And,as evening falls 

into the abyssal night,

we slowly take off 

our clothes of day.

Folded and placed aside

in silent, elongated movements.

And, as we move,

a trail of feathers lingers behind,

fallen,frail,foamy,

Floating in a pile aground. 

Advertisements

Extremes of hot and cold

Standard

His mind lies stuck in the wrong house

Howling at the blue moon approaching.

Wrong place at the wrong time,baby…

Silence crawls into ears

Into a suffocation of sound.

And the eyes shut down the shutters

In a noise of metal doors collapsing

Day after day…

Nothingness surrounds in thick veils

A morbid fog of frozen cold-

The human kind.

While heat scorches my body

In waves,from within,

Until the last ember dies

Of alienation.