You asked me, if a wish could be heard

by some soaring solstice bird.

Far along the clouds flying fanned,

spitting their honest curd into gale-bound umbra,

clouding the ground with fallen hatchlings.

Those who failed to fly, are now free falling from grand Baobabs.

Cradled by dust and uncovered in thread.

Declared dying-dead.

Would you say it's all in their head?

Tied desperately, wing to claw,

beak to back, screaching for it's scratchy nest

preyed on by the vultures caw,

in time, plucked to rest.

A facade in their startled crest?

Hopes splattered across concrete pavements,

blood bouncing back onto the boots of passing cowboys.

Preassured by feathers, fated to plummet.

Sharp diamonds strobe prisms across the land as doves descend,

feathers fall just as diamonds do.

Rain falls tranquil, condescending the wind.

Each droplet - A tear shed by the sulking moon,

who saw me try, to flap my frail wings and fly.

Instead I lay, picking constellations like Petunias.

If stars could cry; My home, a deep lagoon.

Heavy rain falls in fragmental silence, echoing through my cognizance.

My wishes were not aqua, they were acid.

Cursed by exsistance.

Brewing in the secretive fog of forming clouds.

Blown, on flickering flames, coated in gritty insipid icing.

Breaking my mangled body down,

fizzing flesh merges with melting mucus,

fusing my cells to the cement beneath me.

Washed away into red oceans of atomic nihility.

If wishes fell like rain, then certainly I am a storm.