the thunder rattles
the calcified bits
of dead dream
in the long silent solace
of who i once was
the rains pummel
the windows
of the squalor
while reality rolls
in the collected trash
of another failed attempt
at life
beyond the daily allotment
of means
dribbled across
the failings
of my icarus like
fanciful flight fantasies
does the vermin dare dream
it is the mighty lord
of the grasslands
or clutch
the moldy pizza crust close
like a scepter
to ward off the hungry eyes
of the ratking
lurking
in the overturned dumpster
blocking the alley
to the light
i can no longer tell
the clean rainfall
from the fetid drops of grease
dangling
from the discarded placards
proclaiming
hope is just
a prayer away