August Sixth

There is a cloud that shines a color alien to clouds, and nights are darker than they were. Blood I have shed is powder on my memory. I break on these immortal, broken stones, and terror's dying haunts my metaphors.

Everybody I have known is one man waiting on a half-imagined corner for an unfamiliar face that he has loved. The color of that cloud is named Goodbye, for it is raining, shadows, everywhere.

The days have grown as delicate as bones. The loneliest god in the universe is walking, and his every word is possibly goodbye on busy corners. The lonliest god in the universe cries out his lonely name to no one listening. I have murdered terror, and it sleeps.

The promises of gods are quickly lost, but where they touched is memory enough to melt the streets. Stones are broken. Thought has clouds of doubtful colors. I lack all words to say except goodbye.