Songs of the Sky

The dusk was heavy.

When it sat, it made everyone slink into sleep.

It made tree-trunks wear braids of the dead

and tore the sun away from a bleeding sky.

 

It wore stains of lilac and gold on its pyjamas

and spun stories on satin skies

from gossamer threads.

It bangled itself in red carnations

that bloomed without sun and soil.

 

It wore telephone lines around its neck

beaded in feathered silhouettes-

a neckpiece that breaks

as birds break flight

to feed hungry beaks.

 

It bathed itself with pails of water that paintbrushes

deflower to

and then leave behind

in search of better bodies to mark.

It made the sky look like the remains of a burnt fireplace,

blotched in colours that didn’t quite belong

there.

 

The dusk made carts retreat

and brought down the shutters that clung onto rooftops,

like a child to a mother’s breasts.

 

It birthed a kind of exchange that careened

in spotless duvets

atop regimented wood

behind silent curtains that didn’t dare to part-

as bodies tried desperately

to rhyme.

 

It was born out of a strange a feeling-

a feeling of not quite belonging;

of tumbling down the grass of gradients.

it couldn’t

be bottled in monochrome

or mottled by colour.

Its charcoal gaze glazed the woollen sky

and its cherry-red smile

spun red

for the stars

to devour

 

To burp

To inhale

To eat it up

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