feather bones are what we do

the windmills squeak now. but the wind keeps a silence
as long winded. a rogue wave pitching glow worms to a famished cave
crippled by too many suns dying at once.
the burn, an empty cube.
The sky a cyclops; yellow eye-
Staring at everything you've done
Without snitching on 
On your latest 
Delusional 
Epiphany. 

Without sleeping in the theater, how could you dream?

Don't know. 

But since you're beautiful anyway…

Hmmm… ?