August 18, 2015
So it comes like the new moon spinning over the horizon after dawn died in a flurry of sun, where the eye fingered sight and boggled its colors for a tumbledown hell looking for heaven. All the myths are out. The children are hungry. There is no finding for what's sought, the old books are dimming, the sky, bereft of gods, is falling, and chicken little is always running, always screaming, "The sky is falling, the sky is falling," till the dream splits open; where once there was clarity is now a muddle, a mere drizzle over the dead town.