I hash tag drudgery
with planned procrastination,
erase some thoughts,
put a lock on my tongue.
A half wing short of flight
I camp out in my dandelion nest
waiting for the sky to deliver a sign.
Three shadows closer to frantic
I spoon feed my spirit artificial calm
and pray patience isn’t a written exam.
Just before despondent reaches wit’s end
magic pockets its glitter to jewel
my silver lining with heartbeats of onyx.
I always thought angels wore white,
but the ones dropping at my feet looked
more like mourners in their tar feather best.
With claw and caw they plucked self pity
from my breast while admonishing,
“Sitting won’t bring the wind’s urge to soar.”
Like a cloud stealing doom they rise to pencil the sun
with a watchman’s oath, “We’ll be your eyes
when midnight curtains your view.”