Sometimes sitting by the trees in a January night,
Threads of showering cotton balls talk to me.
They bring the message of the surreal that I ache to touch,
And melt my hopes as I take the flakes home.
The dog holds out its tongue in search of the last drop,
As desires leak away questioning the beast in me:
“What can be more satiating than tasting the McCoy?
Why do you let mermaids swim in the cerebral fluid in thy mind?”
“A block of concrete will fix the tower you breathe in,
The cuts and sides you carve in will form the idol u reside in!”
Step by step earth climbs the shade,
As birds cry for their lost rooms and broken wings.
I stare and ask myself in the war of fighting pigs:
“Why do I always live on little joys of small things?”
The sky jolts as the earth marries the moon,
And I go back in my hide to wait for the next January night.
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