Fire cripples this legion like newspaper would
Paper machete. Eight Minutes away,
By purest account, this pasteurized playground
Cracks and pisses in the fiercest display.

Would flood her neighbors,
who, without her, would surely die,
With ceaseless and piercing light
that is both cause and ellipses of eye.

She atones for me
To read about telepathy,
And the longing for the life of
A true martyr.

Through her aching coughs
Accomodation is needed,
by the source and the thrush of so much,
she patiently sits in the unknowing, in
the swampness of things she cannot touch.

She, lights rosebuds beneath air.
She cracks the famished lands
to sparks, so parched in her kidneys.
But does she herself face even a window?

Through a mixture of melodious and staccato music,
It is business as usual, with hard work commencing
upon the joyful outbreak of her return into sight.
Back from a night spent drifting away.

When the sun shine in,
she shant shine alone.