An Industrial Park On A Starfish Bench

As you pillage your last rites for a thimble of prayer
you clutch the embryo of your Northern Lights
in the wide palm of your Dark Place; but this time-
you have your Poetry.
Amassed in the cul de sacs of your choice.
like an eddy of wind in a forgotten spoonful
of dark alleys too brilliant for normal
calamity.

As you march through the sugar crust of your anemic joy
you find yourself indifferent to the toil of otherness.
drumming up gargantuan traumas with your incessant mood
pulling the wagon.
clumped into ethereal riots, like awkward laughter
at a poker table, with your eyes closed because
“ That’s what You Do “.

As you visit your last hope, you see You; staring back-
like an absolute heathen with Faith beyond Mistletoe
stuffed into a garnet of woeful exile-
like an industrial park,
on a starfish
bench.