It is a soft factory

Fumigated from the earth and snow,

Filled with pale sinews

Of heaven.

Dismantled skies 

Clutter up the corners,

Staring like white stretched faces.

Candle lit bones,

Flicker their expressions.


It is a soft memory,

Mechanical membranes

And rain filled spoons.

Listening to my voice of pale make-up,

Covering a piano rhapsody.


It is a hard hotel room,

Where the radio plays the moon

And eyes dissolve, in a wine glass.

Where the windows wait for lightning,

And night is transfused from veins.

I put my lungs on the table

And return to the choir

Of the sky.

Submitted: March 19, 2018

© Copyright 2023 tom mcmullen. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:



sounds doomed but not desperately. that's why makes an impression.

Tue, March 20th, 2018 4:09am

tom mcmullen

Half way there.

Tue, March 20th, 2018 5:07am

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