Is it the silver streaking from the Sun?
Or the pain of it lying blotched on the horizon?
Who painted it, bloodied it, knows no one
It’s the color fit with the tune of what this night is
Is it the scars of the purple crying Moon?
Or the bleeding in the sky of its sad hue?
Who scratched it, ripped it, mollified it?
Only the drunk tide understands, never tries to fight it
Is it the myriad white pricks leaking in the Sky?
Or just the palm of my feelings stuck there to dry?
Who annexed it, stripped it, pinstriped it?
Perhaps it’s the egg in the head, but we’ll never find it
Is it the ruined pieces of those ancient clouds?
Or the trumpets of the tears of its falling sounds?
Who tore it, discolored it; who despised it?
It’s time, that forlorn invisible wretch staring at his own joke.
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