You stop time
by blocking out the sun with one finger.
the world is eclipsed,
a monolith to a kingdom
of garbage with no king.
The cold bite of winter
that calms the hate generator
is nowhere but in the background
of muted televisions
hovering over the waiting rooms
and lobbies of medical facilitie across the deep south.
static angels.
Its been years
since ive felt anything
for anyone
who wasnt blood related.
way back when
i couldnt speak to the dead.
we flew dream kites
in to powerlines
and let our bones
fuck in small piles
by the country highways
in the aura of burnt down churches
and the dying lights
of a day spent talking of what ifs
and thank gods
and i wish it would never end's.
These are the things
stardust is made of.
