Evenings

Will you look at this? The fight is in the rain, in the far sounding train Of thoughts. My mom says I'm silly Stitched up random, unnecessary urges An anomaly. Not alone in that aspect though Did you see the tree barks filled with mushrooms And houses filled with grief Pretty things growing from decay, both Pretty things I didn't know how to deal With. Still don't know. People refuse to let me see The avalanche of history And the stories, the artifices, the point Do you see the point? Do you see the pinprick of shadow which is a ghost- Which is ghost of the summer you were not brave for the first time, I remember I remember not thinking, and being, and making a palace of my tunnels so big I thought only earthquakes could topple, turns out- Ha. Turns out only feelings were needed, a slap on the wrist, but like a pavlovian frisk, daily on a thing you can't control Contained and made and parfait- Ed. Not a sob story I hope, but a ballad of urban mishaps There's nothing romantic about the setting of a deep orange blood sun, but there are endings That are meant to be. Nights that people should see Finish the story Look out of the window and see what's wrong and not turn away, look In a paint filled wall graffiti I got a story I had not anticipated, a hallmark brand of indecency, an honesty An essay- That's due. Today. Funny how things come down on the success scale. And if you make it to the other side of the cup- You're brave. If you drown before. You're kind. But there are stories for you to find, for the sake of all our conversations be Would I see you on the other side?