Magiks -

dusty Sunday
afternoon
in mid-May. Still... so
still... too still...
still, and even the great chime
of The Dead moves not
and humidity hangs
from greying cloud.
The Siren sings
of ancient magiks - rites
from a bygone age.

Bones
stands on the cracking concretes
smoking as birds whisper
hushed greetings and squirrels
bark softly
to each other.

Eyes closed, acrid
smoke drifting from aging
lungs and toes rooting deep
in concrete, in dusty earth -
for a moment all
is well and your Siren sound
replaces
the silence.

With the smoker's
next
inhale
the world replaces
the dream in a rush -
reality returns.

_{(For A Friend :: 05-16-2010)}