I sat on a chair, my mind was bare,
No spark, no flame, just empty air.

A bird flew in with a cheerful tweet,
She danced a while, then made retreat.

She took my thought, my golden light,
And left me staring, blank and white.

I bought my peace in silver flakes,
from shadow hands in quiet breaks.
They said it shimmered, said it flew —
but gravity still pulled me through.

I lined the stars on bathroom tile,
called it freedom for a while.
It sparkled like a borrowed sky —
but burned like comets passing by.

I chased the night, I chased the glow,
until the stars fell down below.
And when the morning asked for me —
I left in dreams I’d paid to see.

She is the life,
He is the death.
She was mistreated,
He held no breath.
She hoped to end,
He fought to stay.
She kissed him once—
He rose,
She slipped away.

the artists walk, in large part, unseen,
when they’re not crawling along
the pavement,
which crests and falls with the laughter of so many tectonic plates,
so many eviction notices ignored
painters, the lot of them,
but they will never tell you so
they’ve far too much doubt,
too much fear of death,
and far too little time to seize the laughter—so contagious to the crows
and their ****** spree
for shiny things of little, less consequence.