Yesterday God was a windmill pushing sand,
Fingertips trailing through the grains
And the hint of an idea
Teasing the features of His face.
A hair away from who I used to be,
I have begun to measure myself in velocity
And shades of sticky notes.
A breeze found me this afternoon,
Blowing drier than the mouthfeel of a good chianti.
The sweat rolls unchecked between my shoulder blades.
Behind my eyes, Afghanistan
Dreaming herself from the sand,
Longing to taste your clove-spiced words,
And vintage promises sweet as pomegranate
Or sandalwood on sun-warmed skin.
If only I could fill my lungs,
Counter intuitively inhaling smoke,
Holding my breath to expel the gleeful beast
Standing upon my chest, crushing my sternum
While I do not to complain,
Focusing on the expert brushes
That paint on my morning face.
Another day spent trying to believe in it all,
Jealous of the screams
That belong to other people.
I will not offend
Until my pendulum slows,
Clockwork gears grinding sand.
A shrug of the shoulders,
My price tag.
Christ, what do I care about?
I'm tangled in the covers,
Exhausted from sleep I can't afford.
I bequeath my eyelids to you
And all that I have surveyed
Here in this nutshell
Shaped by my ambition,
Your narrow mind,
And the shadow of a dream
Where substance is a dry wind
From the lips of an ancient God
Wearing away the eyes and the mind
Sculpted from sand
And the whisper of an idea of me.