In the Snow

Dine with the days of conjured control, sweeping through a weakness that is bound and sold, to the minds that dance in between sunset and sunrise, breathing thought’s through a powdered mask taking all things into account, there is no way to adjust to this borrowed boarded city found in rust, still these days are paved over like hate and out of the cracks rise sunflowers shading the hardened parts of the city where the minds lay down to sleep, taken and baking are the pondered days, that could have found a shadow gray, blades of hate fall flagrant upon the streets with a weak clatter, hating all things that leave empty and un solidified, like the sold to any ways of Christ, dance these days under an umbrella of fallen scriptures, mixing the minds in a cauldron of consummation, joining star bound recluses as far as the ground was flowing tar from sound excuses leaving bars owning the freedom of another dead poem, all alone in the snow.