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.