under gray skies
where even the birds
don’t sing
as much as scream
at the utter
pointlessness
of it all
the damned feathered
rats, undiagnosed
dinosaurs with hollow
bones, screaming
screaming squawking
yelling only to
have the sound
bounced back by
disinterested heavens
vacant mothers
on thunderously
gray dismal squalls

i sit alone
building little
lean-to cottages
out of wooden
matchsticks while angels
dart in and
out of frame
with quizzical
grins so out of place
in this
banality of absence
i tender my
resignation upon
the tinder of
resigned tenderness
cutting out paper dolls
to string from
my heart directly unto yours