crisscross

It's a boring car trip, just listening to Ariana Grande and occasionally singing along to it. The three of us sit there, six eyes. A pair on the road, a pair glued to their phone and one pair in their own world.

A vivid image, created in your mind while you are asleep
but your mind isn't asleep

the tapestry it is weaving, tells a story of 
anything to everything

whether you have been hit in the head

All the greatest writers kick and scream.
Hazy, dark images start to focus
Their quiet suffering is now howling in
Capital letters.

They faced the dark and poetry turned 
The light switch 

A plastic bag dangles from a tree like an accessory.
A necklace-unwanted and unappealing.
Yet it is still there

Everywhere I look there 
are used paper plates, plastic bottles and 
Various rejected items

Lightning strikes and 
the room lights up,
only to darken again.

Midnight drags on with
the worked-out moon
yearning for a break.

The sky bursts with rage
and this time,
the sun doesn’t save us.

Dives out of the hole.
The bird will return with worms.
​Intrigued, I watch.