This is... Weather are Gods
The sun hounds down
From eggshell blue sky
Sizzles and fizzes off wooden fences.
The air is lit cigarette, alcohol, chocolate.
And I'm walking, minding my own business.
In this uncanny valley.
Finding my way
from the blood boys and husk fathers.
A fire line smile across cremation clouds.
Shattered sugar glass rain splinters down.
The weather like syrup, coating the surface.
And I'm walking, minding my own business.
In this forced perspective
To find a place away
where there are no stars of animal eyes and black hole jaws.
Lips blew charred match ends of days.
Run a flick comb through the slick night hair.
They built a romance version of the gate lodge.
It's not original.
To find a place to get away.
And I'm walking, minding my own business.
In this surreal estate.
To find a way away.
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