don't leave scars in
hardwood floors
Their oxygen
fastly, barely escaping
from the cracks
of glass sky ceiling tiles
Condense into acid clouds
who weep cleansing
iron statues
chipping petals of gold
The glittery sediment
stamps on the soles of my feet
paste as I unravel with pirouettes
and dips
quickly forgetting that I
have hands on my arms
and a head on my shoulders.
The ankles of Pegasus boots
flutter, lift off ever so slightly
forming cyclones of petals
with the fragrance of dining tables
from halls pungent, ancient
with the desires of green men
and shaking the room
like lovers at the peak of their
feverish glares.
A sigh in catharsis
pulls the breaks on the feet
from its ritual of interdimensional gravity.
The fingertips grasp at the air
thick with electricity
unclear whether it's from
the rise of the sun
or the collapse of
what I always wanted
but could never be
what I always wanted to be
but never to be seen.
Clouds never reach the ground
for they don't have enough experience
of walking on their feet
so they barely touch it,
fearing it'll disintegrate
like the feeble, fickle dreams
of men who fall on drooped knees.
