Frog Lips

Wounded patterns.
Straight line moving.
Bottled up feathers.
Plumage.
Chuck and laughter.
Violet towers.
Sleeping pills and cultural icons.
Blue and orange to skim - they perish.
Feathers again. Naked thigh tarnished.
Pages and windows: death, dark and silent.
A stare.
A facade.
A primal scream wakes me.

I wish that I was leaning on that same railing.
I wish that I could see that vivid pink skyline.
But, my eyes are serpents
and sometimes they're mirrors.
A straight line from the neck.
Gods in heaven, forgive us.