You lost your childhood somewhere at the corner of Cleveland avenue to toxic people with waddling hands. They sunk you deeper into the clouds.
You reappeared here. Waiting.
Waiting for poetry to be read. Waiting for the trees to bear fruits and the seams of summer to sprout at the stems of a sycamore tree. For some reason, that was where you were looking for yourself. For your ego.
That was where your spider senses were leading you. They said it was bad luck to yell your dreams out of the window at daytime. It was toxic even, but you already knew that.
You are not surprised by the storm. You have seen it brewing from a distance. It’s been getting stronger. More acidic like grapefruits being fermented to alcohol. This is how we are, you and me you see.
All your senses know the toxic hands grappling your shinbones. An endogenic heat spurring within you is begging to release your alcoholic nature, but when the night disguises the sun and the days turn bronze, all you are left with are;
Toxic people with toxic hands.
Nevertheless, you are still waiting. All summer-long, you stood still. You feel your torso sink further into the clouds of toxic hands. The trees bleed violet. Your senses melt. You forget the reason you were waiting in the first place because a woman with an oversized ears pointed at you as she poisoned your mind with a toxic snake.
You breath yourself back to stillness. It will be okay now. The sun will shine again at the end of autumn because they can’t take away twice what you’ve already lost once.