Pewter Moons
Dishwater creeks are iron rails in the cold light.
The sky is thick
with the muted warnings of exhausted banshees.
Harken little sparrows
for bells in toll booths peel in their empty boxes.
The farms are lost, the fields have drowned,
cattle wander, levitating just above
a ghostly ground.
Wade we all, eye deep in the swirl
of better days.
when pewter moons silvered
bright dawning's.
If we travel far now
there may be no homes left
for us to relive our lives within.
Better to nail the mind down into soft pillows,
for the day has no forgiveness in it.
Mercy a prepackaged gift long opened.
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