yr halo was like a bad art project gone horribly right
like a graffiti above your prescient head.
words incised you into this and they may well bring you back.
where every sidewalk you cover is a temple and did you know that?
your halo is brake fluid shoe polish latex paint tinfoil tissue paper rusted red rail-road ties and the thundercloud of february skies pissing sleet.
how unlikely these should meet?.
only in our minds babe.
only in our minds.