Langues des Tetes

Pulling back the blue sky on some Sunday
while bouncing black ideas of of withered white walls.
How a Saturday can fall reminds of me of how fast
I burn.
Can tongues paint a heart whole or is it merely
the spasms of muscles that make a home
true to its name?
Often times a word can comfort but for a night.
Daylight or clouds for better measure call for stronger action,
for the blood that pumps in veins and the thought
in movement.
To know where two feet walk require one to walk,
not just to know where the sun sets and lines on a map.
Skylines will one day be destroyed though for now
spires will climb to the moon and streets will stretch until
they drown in rivers.
My own walks always end in where I find the air feels best.
Dancing comes best when bare-feet bleed on beautified ground.
Truth is the ultimate flower, though mirrors may say that
ugliness is no more than a dark spot in the eyes,
it really is just another piece of the world to look
further into.
Walking into the ground,
walking into the sky,
walking into the sun.
I am here and so it seems where I want to be
is still beneath my feet in some distant dream.
In the back of my voice I sometimes find
where I have breathed deep and swallow the breaths
that I still have yet to exhale,
that is my home for the night and where
words still speak fresh from our throats.