Passengers, this isn’t your captain speaking.
There aren’t any bullets in thi-
Fired- didn’t quite make the cut.
Love is sublime and can’t be sublimated.
(Remember that sublimation has meanings in both a social context and a scientific context. Old people can be really witty.)
There’s nothing like
Cloud watching with
A crystal blue sky.
A birds soars, brushing
Against clouds; my soul
flies with it.
To the rythm
Of bird calls.
“Curiosity struck again” said the cat detective.
A summer moth drew near
And seemed to dance in her flight
Telling me of her travels,
And what she’d seen,
dwarfed by the universe.
She flew again; I bid her well.
Another dead heart swapped
With a chemical trigger.
What land of toil?
Comfort’s only a resource
From the blue sky mine.
The city sleeps and a garbage pile smolders
A thousand goldfish swim on reflections
On the house and car windows.