At least I can say he is still reading
on top of fiction, the glass is tinted red
feet dancing on the colorful ledge of the horizon
in moments like these the sun sets slowly
refusing to break the monotony of a visual world.
I have yet to interact with the sky—for I know
it will forget its readers. whether real or not
feelings cannot be fossilized into song
a book becomes the impossible representation of fact
we still read though, both in and outside of ourselves
with hope radiating, human beings circling the sun like ambivalent fools.
The lucky ones have seen many peaceful days
rise above the illusion of the American dream
the sky alive in its colorful beauty, reaffirming a world
somewhere out there that has forgotten itself.
The ruler comes now to galvanize the ignorant
while we read the words salvaged for fools
no one will speak outside their pages
until the devil has come to life, telling us a story of our
tainted past too easily ignored.