I cannot be responsible
for your scarred skin...

He crafted a winter swing
so that when snow caved them in...

I open my kaleidoscope,
mesmerized by mirror beads...

Nose-smeared windows
reiterate aged tracing...

Foreign waves trample over
inhaled advocacy...

I am the bearded cloud
powering from your laden corn...

I hang plump peaches on scorched branches
with mending juice for your dry blistered hand...

Let raindrops soak our heads
Quenching thirst of all we've said...

Woodwind floats among limp mourners
who cannot force heavy claws back...

1. I sculpt the eternal Heavens
with the palm of my hand...

The bruised and heavy number
trying to settle on your eye bags...

I fill the population
a lost voice croaking...