against naked sky

….like a couple of broken bottles in far reaches of the desert, a hollow piano
bleeding against the setting sun.
Where life is..
is where madness is.
everything is woken by morning light
traveled across the open sky in the tethers of the first winks of naked stars
life is not television
and a plate of eggs
sometimes I spend a day looking for one chord…
just so someone can say “once a chord killed a man. Once a man killed a song with sleep.”

don’t forget to touch the sky on the way up.