Stop Motion Cyclops

  Horizon holds her breath, unfurling toward the days endeavors. The fog twined in the trees, spun out to spell The Ghost of Christmas Ever Sacred and scared in the snow, starlight of stairs lets me go The fireplace sings soft and low, bringing me I made a prayer for you, sculpted from mercy and feathers It spiraled from my hands, wings whispering The Ghost of Christmas Ever Sacred and scared in the snow, starlight of stairs lets you go The fireplace sings soft and low bringing you Sacred and scared in the snow, buried in hair long ago Your spirit sings soft and low, beckoning

  How does it feel to be dealt a hand full of sardines and rusty nails?  Pinch yourself you might find that you hate the way you feel.  Frosted shoulder shoves your teeth into crooked interruption. Loop the handshake in reverse til we forget our introduction. Leaves falling like elevators, confetti the political desanguination. Your mouth is spitting bitter snow but everybody's changed the station. Scrape off the tears of rage and cultivate a garden of attrition. Feed the beast of kindness and pray it don't die of malnutrition. You think when the dust settles you'll ascend to the upper crust. But when all is dotted and crossed you'll only be left with dust. Elevator filled with fallen leaves, crisply blanket the fallow field. Throwing punches yards from the mark, it doesn't matter if you yield.

In your dream, your hair is dancing, off-key tributes twine, entrancing The crackling hum of waves of light, coarsing through your veins like snakebite Children shivering like a paused VHS, angry furniture fills the room with stress Pummel problems we can't diagnose, morse code clocking ticks out threatening odes Singing Ooh, I'm a wolf, I am a gun in your home There was a time there was a God who hung his world on your facade Fingers thrumming ribs like strings, scripture spread from spine like wings Then the words burned off the page, flames warping sound in crackled rage A smoking book, a mumbled moral, filled with pseudo-sense in quarrel Screaming Ooh, I'm a wolf, I am a gun in your home Shadow babble, TV tongue, spirit throttled, left unsung Harps of doubt are fully strung, breath of cynic spins in lung The facade world now gone unhung, Sunday bells all mute, unrung But inspiration's found among dreams and colors of the young Singing Ooh, I'm a wolf, I am a