years of dead leaves ferment in the corner covered with months of rain and stale water. they sigh as they are raked up and thrown into a large black bag for disposal.

the gravel beneath them are covered with eons of treading and worn down to the smallest pieces of earth, the chair I sit on sinks into their endless woes, they crunch and crackle and buckle like a dim fire thriving in the black of night.

and the sky is tenebrous, filled with rain, ominous, ready to shed its tears in blankets at any given moment; but they will be pushed away by the ever constant, chilling wind to cry above some other town, above some other patches of gravel, above some other thinker sitting with his mind wandering through the ill kept streets and buildings and mindless bipeds walking with no where in particular to go.

he thinks that this earth is round, filled with violent heat and it will spin and spin and spin until it can’t bare to spin anymore. running laps around the father and the son and the giver of life that is the sun; with his flares and bursts and explosions in the dead cold of space.

the black silk depths, the expanse of infinity and the absence of gravity, the bone shattering cold and the invisible strands of god keeping it all together like a patchwork blanket.

and light years away floats groups of dead stars, newly birthed stars, gaseous planets tied to a string and attached to a child’s hand; they’re filled with helium, the gargantuan birthday balloons and sympathy balloons and congratulations balloons with fancy and shimmering lettering covering their faces.

sirens of titan singing atop their moon attracting any and all who dare pass by, so tempting and seductive and life threatening.

rings of space dust and garbage crowning different planets in different places, signifying their almost importance in an abyss of infinite unimportance.

I come to as the wind lightly kisses my face and sends chills up my long spine. my arms quiver and my heart palpitates. skin slightly raised, rush of blood to the extremities, brain pulses and electro-magnetic waves are emitted from my finger tips to attract any sort of warmth drifting through the seas of existence.

my eyes skirt the edges of life and reality and my mouth grins in ridicule of how I’m thinking.

my feet tell me to move, my ears tell me to listen, my fingers tell me to put that foul stick to my lips again, again, and again.

my lungs don’t really have any say.

I get tired of the back and forth and the ebb and flow of walkers shuffling about the avenue. throw my cigarette to the ground in disgust, legs lift me off of the chair and take me inside.

its busy, such a collective.