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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