Ladders To The Sun

Built for the spilling can of paint, water, and tears that overflow.

Born on a Friday I have never dreamed of snow.

Calmer than most days the dosage of sun shimmers so transfixed.

In bluer skies I dreamed of be washed with arms around me a favorite son.

Daydreams of graveyards calling all romantics as we dance, and dream, celebrate our smoldering demise.

Years before the flames consume, coffin shopping, and morbid daymares of Tuesday afternoons.

Basement living where the wine chills, and the spiders outstretch.

Tears well, and the finish only can absorb so much before the dam breaks.

Classical studies of the us vs. them, raised with poor rhetoric, but fear taught me how to swim.

Walking hand in hand with the vicious truth into skies everlasting, the air falls as dodge is fleeting.

The smiles we give the fasting lacking, as ascension braves the pitfalls where ankles roll inward laughing.

Bracing calmly , the evens keel, and to the sky.

Confessions fly as paper doves.

Littering the telephone wires like snow.

Born on a Friday.

No, not mistaken.