• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 07

Skies drained in chairs

Flowers painted on chairs see no bounds.
They flood through arms and legs,
not separating one petal from the next.
Those who danced among us, seem so faded now.
Their arms and legs, that once supported skies drained on chairs, have now been severed, and pulled from memory.
The trouble with our prayers is that they are buried by masses.
Written on walls showing no intention of leaving,
our cries wait unheard.
What keeps us together is not mere carpentry,
it is that we are an irremovable audience of skies drained on chairs, filtering clouds of blue light.