Thursday

Mountain ranges
Morning red bathed ridges Stab up at the trembling blue horizon
Grey slides lazily off rooftops, lands on the incandescant ground and dies
A flock of little men touch down on the surface of the porchlight
Bronze footsoldiers return to march the twilight across our faces
Skylights ignite and explode Scattering shards of april around the room
No one even lives here
We're too busy crashing our cars every morning into same house
Paving the same roads unwilling to walk them
And even when we extend ourselves, its only to be included
In a moment that stands still
And so often we don't struggle to improve conditions