One touch, one eye, one hand clapping Racing to be the first sun. A big apple pie in the sky, that tastes Like falling down concrete stairs Or God's closed fist. Your tools burn my comfort at night When the trees eclipse the stars With shadows of the cold war And rumors of a fallen winter. The conforming force that shaped my cradle My face is fused to the sound of your laughing Letting smoke-filled rooms rule me With the new religion of the sub-atomic The vibrating nothings that bind us still.Birth sign: Libra
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by PunkyThespian.