The tin-foil star was torn from the sky but burns a bit in sunlight.
The beach chills me to the core, today.
I’m wearing shorts.
My hollowed chest is a tree trunk.
Blackened burning in my nose
Roaring drowsiness tugs at my fingers
The grass sparkles dully and I see
Ash tickles my tongue
I hear crying and it’s bright blue
Life feels like an overripe lemon.
Carl can’t sleep anymore.
Woke people are sometimes still dozing.
If we move forward, time stands still
Inertia is a property of matter.
What you breathe may never truly leave.
The stars whisper into my tired ears.
Take them to the beach, tonight. They can be our alarm clocks.