The sky seems grey even with clear weather
and the sun screaming its perfect day.
The clouds drifts past fast but the air
seems stale having lost its way.
Deaf-tone birds sing monotone tunes
in jagged rhythm while trees tower
leafless in endless ordered columns.
Droning about after every hour.
Motionless still, what is there left for us
if there is even any that’s left of me,
or of you, or of anyone not yet dust?
Where do lost souls go to be free?
Caught between prisons, we hone in on
empty spaces inside each other as home.
Flipped Serendipity 