kindling your peanut shell, faith

Sometimes you perch on dandelion breath, waiting for the neon glow: EXIT. The bus has come but the holes in your pockets stole your ticket and wallet. The pavement was only an accomplice.

Everything pulls away in the yellow and wheels, churning the hurricane that abandons only you, wrenching everything else. Slapped first by the wind then expired passes.

You curl up on the bench with nowhere to be but here, cracking peanut shells. The ants know it is raining, in the cracks, but they are too busy.

How sick are you? the emptiness has grown, this tumor that makes red concrete from your veins.

Sometimes someone has to kindle your light with their own faded matches, whipped to the bone. Drive you home. A whip of faith so your garbage gets carried away.

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