WORDS

They seem further away
like a locomotive pulling
from a station, with a wave
and a single tear,

Serving well the myriad
conceptions of inner color,
host of the twilight call,

braver still, above fingered
dystonia, sprinkling galaxies
like gala confetti
to
firing synapses, unfenced,
beyond the rubbled royalty,
pushing for a nobler time.