people who look to the sky when they lose everything
Pink sherbert skies raise goosebumps
on mountains made of scar tissue. Birds birds birds. Always becoming more or less /depending on their direction of flight. I once thought that when people died, their souls landed on the other side of clouds. We couldn’t see them and they couldn’t see us,
but they were always suspended above our gravity. Maybe that is why we make shapes of clouds – we are looking for a recognizable face. While we dream of flying, our souls leave our body
to visit the atmosphere. Escape escape escape. Always becoming more or less, depending on our direction of chaos. I cannot hold this pain. It grows too airy when riding the breath of lungs. It gets caught beneath the wings of birds. It rises above the clouds
to join the souls of the deceased.