THE HOUSE WITH THE FLICKERING LIGHTS

It’s 4 am and you’re the house with the flickering lights.
you smell like toast having a dream about a nose in a furnace
of unkempt fire, inhaling the effluvium of your awkwardness
while cupping your hands at a fountain of noise.

bunnies sleep where a clutch of adventurers retire in a hole.
the foam of your impending deliverance… spark mad
and cumbersome regardless.

you bloom where the Hereafter is common
and come undone when you awaken

Like a Fool.