In the city of ghosts,
I walked with angels,
clothed in shadow and last year’s denim,
striding unassumingly amongst the undead,
waiting, wordlessly, for their own little Raptures.
And, along the seabed,
amidst the dying metropolises of bleached bone,
and charcoaled ruins,
my own eye saw the microscopic rebellions,
of fiery corals,
awaiting their moment to blossom,
and paint the ocean blood red.
Who is to say that,
in this empty meadow,
the pines charred and gray,
their hearts infested with black scarabs,
that an aspen has not shot its roots into the earth,
readying to invade the desolate plain,
it’s only weapon: life.
Don’t expect me, to stay quiet long,
just because I seem content,
contentedness is an illness these days,
and even if I’ve never been happier,
living on the ground,
I still aspire to fly,
and will someday raise the world with me,
ascending to the heavens,
with or without convention’s consent,
to live in the godly realm of those who still dare to expect,
and, with prayers some said were futile,
bring forth the dawn.