Obscurity of grey curtains,
Hiding the coldest reds of the new autumn.
Leaving her eldest daughter at college,
forgotten memories rest in splotched patches
on the leather seats.
The growing cold comes in like waves,
crashing and growing exponentially,
destroying all crusted creatures left in its path.
Distinguishing the sizzling touch of black asphalt,
remembering the past father’s special pasta
burning the roof of her mouth.
The sidewalk grows thinner along the outer boundaries,
turning into rubble and picturesque sand in multitudes.
Never would she have thought the fall to be summertime,
yet the smell of freedom and harsh smog bring her back to
avid Julys on the dark green waters of Jersey.
Scaling as high as the heavens,
with hell’s burning highway nestled under in abundance,
taking the fuel of the world away with every fill-up.
No sight of the burning
Jesus
Today, just visions and pieces of his rays
lay burrowed in his
pale cotton candy,
silently engulfing all life without a sugar coating on top.
All part of an elaborate game,
the smoking gun,
waiting for the bullet to connect between the neck and rib cage of
a sick doe
crossing untouched sacred ground.
Fast as lightning,
his legs swiftly go limp underneath his carcass.
His cheek sliding across the tundra,
pale yellow cement
of a once splendorous fruit and vegetable garden.
With enough resources to supply an entire town,
the hoarders sit on a pile of
greed,
rising high above the grey smoke
in fresh baby-blue skies.
The leaves,
their magnificent properties of
passion,
love,
and flourishing
life,
hidden by the
muck
of
mankind.
Desperately trudging through,
sinking like quicksand,
drinking the final gulp of clean,
un-artificial air.
Raked into a pile of death,
perpetually in motion,
the sludge consumes all.
