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Description
Inside jokes shared between souls & taken back; detached,
inside-out. Inside a waiting room, an apparition laugh: Inner
silhouettes of chuckles held back, barricaded
within its drywall of two-faced flowered wallpaper.

Faint patterns of dahlia, lilac, tulip: The only smells
to ever linger beneath the bridges of their nostrils.

Then, a scent of dying skin baked from newborn kindling:
Aroma of bridges cooking, burning their last supper.
& they witness everything they would die for rest untouched,
but from across bottomless pits of free space, untouchable.

They stretch their arms out, like a train of isolated cabooses,
careful their back-stabbing fingertips don't touch one another,
careful not to burst their bubbles. The one which laughs last, one sunflower
is sufficient to illuminate any World in which they choose to hold power,
blooming & growing roots in their horizon.

Soft as baby skin, a soft baby, blue:  The only touch
to ever swing the bridges of their nostrils.

Then, one blow strong enough to show a dandelion
how Hurricane Katrina must have felt like for a ton
of brick, how Pearl Harbor must have felt for a ship,
to blackout a city of candle light & grant one wish
in which they so choose to ask from the Genie
of 'have your cake & eat it, too.'

Growls of anorexic appetite are put on hold-- Boycotted
food for thought, insisting fast food that their "three" wishes
come true: "There must be some mistake. It's not my birthday,
& I ordered the magic lamp, not this sugar-coated cake."

Remote winds whistling lost voice answering machines: The only sound
to ever escape from right under the bridges of their nostrils.

Then, across the tightrope of thin hope, the bearer
of bad news: "I'm sorry for your potential loss,
I wish Penny the best of luck, I truly do."

Shots heard 'round the World to all Messenger Birds
that knew: "How could this happen to..Why ME, not YOU?
No, no this must be an act of that one guy I look through
when times aren't so sky blue."

Bitter afterbirth of miscarried faith: The only taste
to ever smell so stout they could taste it crossing bridges of their nostrils.

Then, black clouds follow through, & "Red Rover, Red Rover,
send our pure blood brothers on over."

From the sky light, their battle ground-- Where it has pitter-
pattered the crimson of half-hearted, beheaded brotherhood:
"Pretty please with our Cherry hearts on top o' your roof!"

Sky-high view of tainted turf, colour drained from faces: The only sight
to ever be captured from atop the bridges of their nostrils.

Then, staring into their orange crystal ball,
blinded they reach toward a braille God:
"My Penny is a trooper. My Penny will pull through."

Description
Inside jokes shared between souls & taken back; detached,
inside-out. Inside a waiting room, an apparition laugh: Inner
silhouettes of chuckles held back, barricaded
within its drywall of two-faced flowered wallpaper.

Faint patterns of dahlia, lilac, tulip: The only smells
to ever linger beneath the bridges of their nostrils.

Then, a scent of dying skin baked from newborn kindling:
Aroma of bridges cooking, burning their last supper.
& they witness everything they would die for rest untouched,
but from across bottomless pits of free space, untouchable.

They stretch their arms out, like a train of isolated cabooses,
careful their back-stabbing fingertips don't touch one another,
careful not to burst their bubbles. The one which laughs last, one sunflower
is sufficient to illuminate any World in which they choose to hold power,
blooming & growing roots in their horizon.

Soft as baby skin, a soft baby, blue:  The only touch
to ever swing the bridges of their nostrils.

Then, one blow strong enough to show a dandelion
how Hurricane Katrina must have felt like for a ton
of brick, how Pearl Harbor must have felt for a ship,
to blackout a city of candle light & grant one wish
in which they so choose to ask from the Genie
of 'have your cake & eat it, too.'

Growls of anorexic appetite are put on hold-- Boycotted
food for thought, insisting fast food that their "three" wishes
come true: "There must be some mistake. It's not my birthday,
& I ordered the magic lamp, not this sugar-coated cake."

Remote winds whistling lost voice answering machines: The only sound
to ever escape from right under the bridges of their nostrils.

Then, across the tightrope of thin hope, the bearer
of bad news: "I'm sorry for your potential loss,
I wish Penny the best of luck, I truly do."

Shots heard 'round the World to all Messenger Birds
that knew: "How could this happen to..Why ME, not YOU?
No, no this must be an act of that one guy I look through
when times aren't so sky blue."

Bitter afterbirth of miscarried faith: The only taste
to ever smell so stout they could taste it crossing bridges of their nostrils.

Then, black clouds follow through, & "Red Rover, Red Rover,
send our pure blood brothers on over."

From the sky light, their battle ground-- Where it has pitter-
pattered the crimson of half-hearted, beheaded brotherhood:
"Pretty please with our Cherry hearts on top o' your roof!"

Sky-high view of tainted turf, colour drained from faces: The only sight
to ever be captured from atop the bridges of their nostrils.

Then, staring into their orange crystal ball,
blinded they reach toward a braille God:
"My Penny is a trooper. My Penny will pull through."