where are the angels in all of this?
She knew the fires of the forest were in there somewhere, spent like frozen eyes in a seersuckers' place of rest, carried and forgotten. Under the marshmallows, or lying footprinted on a stair on a dusky April morning. Somewhere in the cubby-holes, in the master keys, was the canary in the lollipop, the stolen bicycle, the reason her heart stopped every morning.
I can witness that her guards were markedly placed, her shoes were polished to a shine of a peacock, and her ears were turned red for fear of policemen. She was protected, gentlemen. She could carry a tune like narry a stop-light, and she could discern from two steps softly on the celestial ladder that a nightingale was burning, a nightingale was burning and leaving her clothes of fire tangled all over her lonely coal-hating house.
If this is going to be a search for the non-apple of lifelessness, then there must be a name and a manual for it somewhere. Forgive, then, this poor mourner of children and past selves, this poor wearer of dry-cleaned souls, this lonely circus performer in chalked-up anger.
I can witness that her guards were markedly placed, her shoes were polished to a shine of a peacock, and her ears were turned red for fear of policemen. She was protected, gentlemen. She could carry a tune like narry a stop-light, and she could discern from two steps softly on the celestial ladder that a nightingale was burning, a nightingale was burning and leaving her clothes of fire tangled all over her lonely coal-hating house.
If this is going to be a search for the non-apple of lifelessness, then there must be a name and a manual for it somewhere. Forgive, then, this poor mourner of children and past selves, this poor wearer of dry-cleaned souls, this lonely circus performer in chalked-up anger.