on becoming an angel

mbrazfield (c) 2024

night always at night my mind wanders seeking shelter in fantasy of golden palm trees and crystal blue waters
day everyday my brain drags on a few synapses tell me to move out of the way before somebody knives me
night long drawn out my gut churns mouth waters reminiscing on mommas apple cobbler and the sweet cinnamon scent of her apron as i held her
day bright from sunny sky as i stand in line styrofoam tray pre wrapped subs carton of milk served by shaming eyes that pity me
night the thirsty dark i hear war cries grunts deep gurgles women sobbing a junkie last breath
day with hint of rhythm oozing out from stands on the rainbow flower vendors block Smokey Robinson was my guy
night twinkles with pookie pipes bic lighters and trash bin fires i notice star parallels in the sky milky way shavings and rogue morning stars
day depending on the block my sights may fall on sleeping babes cradled by loving arms or come upon the sight of a Coroner’s tent with one less soul inside

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