There Have Been Wars

There have been wars. There have been statements made. The time for these is never now, but always then, always when you last left your mouth to dry outside the sky. I cannot reach the sound, even though its words hurtle toward me through vast spaces within the realm of cowardice. These streaks up my back put an end to no shame. These yellow tire-tracks speak of pain, plain-old, and nothing else but what you can see in every dimestore window in the land of dollars.

These lands are the remains of time. Floods crackle through here beyond the touch of water, singing above the rain that happens whenever any day decides to cry to out of earth. The ground cracks, splinters, bleeds, lingers into a thousand open spaces where my whithering mind cannot go without ways to hold to back, ways to hold things I do not even want back, but only want to go forward, up, out, days lighting up the spires of engulfed terminals at the portals of diminished yesterdays that have not seen the light of day for many thousands of any measurements done by mankind.

How many shades of purple can be accomplished by waiting within any drawn shape? How many deceased cartons of reckless fuel can be made to unflower in this vicious night? We trade our secrets here; we leave things alone here. They smell the way they smell with even no interference whatsoever, and so cannot be imagined by any tackling doors done up in the braids of fancy’s listless days.

I will fly to out-of-bounds, where I shall wait until the last picture has been made on all the walls put up by finished men. These will count as projects done and done, completed under the way the sky looked at any time.

Flowers grow in space, like everything else.