Paper Dolls Weeping in the Breeze
It is 3 AM and sound beats hollow against the oak and styrofoam and the echo of an empty bottle. Time emerges from the shadows, and I lean back. Ghosts knock and memories that are not mine come to play. A nostalgic fog permeates and darkness opens up its wide dry mouth. Life tracks leave scars callousing in real-time along my forearm and hives erupt. There is a sleeping rose garden to my right, it is beauty and thorns. And to my left: water. Baptism, change, baptism, change. It is 3 AM and the Sirens are crying above the hiccup of a metronome, and I am sitting still.