I cool the mirror
you approve your existance with
with blue menthol irises
and wear a shroud of withered
funeral bouqets to blend in
a city landscape stuck inbetween
the threshold of someone else’s pale
painting, for now, still a work in progress
in the sleepy mind of a nameless painter
where brushstrokes not yet laid rest in drift
in a place before, in a place before
to formulate something
of redeeming nature
in blackouts the saints
give maps to the demons
who burn it all up in sunrise
and scatter the ashes around in dance
in the parks all around the city
when in contact with the dew on the ground
flowers bloom, with human faces
but with roots dancing up in the heavens
like highways for all of dreams
rain falls and
a wizard rises from the earth
more like a glowing fungi
than human his song is an impossible
motion of a flower blooming
and withering at the same time