Flightless Bird in Stormy Weather 

I often think about how much
I love you 
and that odour that lingers 
once heavy doors shut; 
they leave this drastic sense 
of nostalgia and opiate 
infusions that get tangled 
in the mess of my head.

There are chills and horrors 
in the spines of infants 
that strangle the shadows 
of sharp hands - 
The mirage of sunshine appetites
clouded by the shield of 
phantasmagoric shape-shifters.

I am -
statements posed as question marks 
lingering on the edge of 
mountain tops ;
you are, cloudy.
she is, ghostly. 

I am- 
again questioning the existence 
of man and those 
kaleidoscopic flashings 
in my skull.

Mad woman, always
and daring, never -

I often think of your
shadow and his 
shoulder blades sticking 
into those infant spines:

I often think of the debris 
left behind by she-storms 
and the inability to 
congratulate reflections 
on the attainment of 

"There's magic in dusty corners
and there's life in this shell" 
she says, shrinking