From The Porch

Parallel the emerald sea rests civilization,

Which echoes with voices of the pure and gold,

Who nonchalantly murder the miniature souls beneath.

Rays aggressively penetrate their skins.

The wind is almost nonexistent in the chambers

From which they originate.

When the beings unhitch the latch,

The atmosphere begins to grieve it’s newfound light.

And weeping willows really do wail this time,

Languidly making way for the kings and queens.

Although their mouths may fantasize,

And the crevasses around their eyes will depict

Tales of heroic deeds.

I have come to believe in the house

Rather than the home.

Because the rays may travel throughout the hands of a clock.

But the giant always descends back into the horizon,

And into the depths of a dangerous abyss.