It rains.
In April it always rains.
Picturesque skylines abounding in the pixelized haze
captured just above
haystack communities and the eyelid utopian village
with its still-life bowls of fruit
that wantonly roll around
in an eternal setting.
The world of drones and worker bees, of Monarchs
floating through phantom depths in sequence
only to stutter and falter
alone.
Perhaps that's why so many moths worship the 65 watt
goddess in my ceiling
long before they choke the light with the discarded husks
of burnt-out renditions of movement.
Perhaps it has less to do with phosphorescent holocausts
and more to do with hoping
to touch more than this midnight
before the world teeters
from all the dead air inside.
Butterflies running through this vineyard sampled
my mind thick with pacing
and the knowing that I am no wine
and that I will not taste so sweet with age.
Lines have been drawn tonight to keep them all at bay,
with chalk that is both biodegradable and a signal flare
showcasing how far life
and breathing can stray from one another.
Everything needed to be set ablaze
before concrete and steel were the only song left to sing.
Stopping, the world tastes a lot like ash
when I try to say "Hello."
Tragedy could indeed rain veritable forms
of crowning triumph on this head,
and the world could be worse.
Regardless, that doesn't make this
flowering in concrete
any less than torture.
Simply because I wear a roof doesn't mean
that I'm not drowning in rain.
But the smiles...the waters are also laden
with the weight of ten thousand expressions that haunt
like ghosts
in a forest that no longer exists.
Ten billion souls walking alone,
rendering the world apart.
They never asked for original sin
or shadows
or rain clouds to walk through.
But it always rains in April.
