clouds are billowing restlessly as if they are
hunted by the demons of night, but oh
why should it matter anymore?
the crossroads in my town are not my
crossroads anymore

what once was my safe little cushion under
infinite blankets of stars seems now bereft of
honey hues and lemon suns

walking through fields of blown out candles
the northern wind wheezes through my overcoat
I shrug and unexpectedly crush
an empty shell lying just beneath the ashes
"how tragic" I keep thinking, "how beautiful"

the breeze keeps hitting me, trying to paint me back
on the ebony walls with their crumbling varnish where I once lived
a still life, framed by the ink of a thousand nights
always dreaming about rains which never came

not anymore, never more would I, shall I, can I be
written again by this pen, this anvil of childhood needles
not anymore, never more shall I be a
mural of unlived life

for one by one, drops of rain are now dreaming upon me
drenching, clenching, curling and squeezing me
splintering, filtering, pouring me within
a spotless night, a blanket only
waiting for the stars
to be dreamed