rusty hearts of iron men,
fear factories billowing heavy smoke from their stacks,
sanded glass store front windows,
green liquid on printed paper, a door less house,
and the texture of a rainbow for the blind.
A box of lightning to tap away at,
a teardrop hanging from a thread tied to a dark eyelash,
the bare feet that leave no print on the concrete of our streets,
a winter’s worth of passion boiling on the stove.
While a clock no one looks at wastes its time,
a story never read becomes unwritten in a furnished home
for a family of ghosts,
as the offering of candles burn brightest at noon.
A nest of tangled, ill-formed words made from a young
cardinal's untrained feathers,
a hammer slamming away at the laughing wind,
as loneliness’ brother never returns,
while a father who labors at his tasks mustn't forget his mother,
or all is lost.
But nothing seem to be seen beyond the flakes of snow
that embrace their descent,
knowing that in the flash of a lifetime
they are light, pure, and born to fly.
Rodrigo G.
