my own brand of alchemy

my story’s wrapped in leaves
and ash and tears
and blood and
cheap kite string.

that kite never flew.

so it becomes appropriate
and my story all comes true.

but not my dreams.
they’re hidden in
a box upstairs
and won’t see the light.

the light never knew.

lest it would have tried
to shoot through the cracks
and find its color shift to blue.

and every light that
seeps into my eyes
would cringe upright
and wish it hadn’t.

where it tries to hope.

for a mere moment of speed
until worldly yet unreachable desires
turn to stone.

 

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