idle statues mimic the mournful wind.
a cherubim’s tears, a children’s prayer,
the lilac breeze grieves in silence
a malady of proportion.
in a haze, we reveal drunk palms,
reproduce lost weekends
with linen folds and acetate.
a sad space rotates in a dream.
a boiling head of crushed colors
sets the empty body in stone.
pet sounds and phonographs,
i discover myself in pastoral ghosts
a satire of sunshine.
o silver-lipped stroke
of anguish and repose;
what is the curious anthology of my Soul?