A crushed skull.
Matted hair.
Lipstick smeared
on the monument.
There are those days
you wake up knowing.
And then there are those
you go outside
and the world takes you;
Sweetly and angrily;
Under the strong arms
of sycamore;
Atop the chocolate soil
with the snails, snailing;
Wet, beneath the steel trellis
where the vines grow up,
extending into the clouds
like a dream still alive.
Suns twinkling mercilessly, it rains
gold flakes and onion skins.
Our tentacles reach up
toward the gods that do not
listen. Love, they say, is bravery
because in the end—
you cannot hold on to any of it.
Love, they say.

written on 09/01/2011 by: Matt Kane