Psa

Matches return to their books,
Having grown back their red heads,
Ready to sing a new fire

Bullets return to the magazine,
Having laid down a boy,
Making a body another story

Wind returns to the heavens,
Having made a house a dandelion,
Creating new chaos 

Vocies return to their owners,
Having said nothing but boilded noise,
Preparing to elect fellow pawns 

What is left returns to our palms,
Having been throughly weathered,
Still reciting the entropic melody of what once was

But never
What is now.

4/13/18

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