The Moon and I #30

The sound of a thought sparking flatly on a fire starter, catching itself on nothing at all and disappearing into wild air.

Brick walls extending upwards into heavens and heavens offering them no windows.

Cathedrals daunting upwards, discovered by natives instead of discovering them, left as only shattered stained glass crafted into jewelry.

Empty boxes falling against each other in a rusted moving van, paint chips littering the lids.

Carelessly used needles rattling blankly onto the ground of a gravel lot by a school yard.

Echoes of words we’ve heard before and before and before and never afterwards.