Written by: Johnathon Souders

Hallogen Rows
lighted eyes of machines,
caterpillaring the city galaxy.
I propped on "Cemetery Hill".
Laid wet, slop-shoed,
from black snow.

Decembers clouds are haze,
thick in night undone.
Arches, Bells, Kings
beacons feeding the masses.
Air of ribs, wings, and other flesh.

Rubber slices concrete,
noise of sea waves.
My neck turtles,
at Thousand feet dropped sprinkels.
A siren tells of pain,
somewhere on the map.

A Tower member modeled,
blinks pilot warnings.
Wolf relative is talking,
of passer-byes, and
Mates unseen.
I'm keeping stars,