Black Whole 816

We are crummy kids and martyrs
Birds of warped feathers and electric cores

Unstable faces wanting
To heal.

We pile an old coffee table
In ashes

We knit together our dreams
In a frantic rug

Waiting for an explosion,
for the day we become Holy,
Old messes dripping away,

The day we find the horizon
of the ocean that terrorized
Us, we’ll scaffold that star
we named “hopefully Estrella”

From an alien grotto
We’ll stumble in quiet bliss

One day, I’m convinced
We’ll be somewhere radiant
Hair and eyes tousled
In meteors

Our old and battered world
dancing through us, blooming
from a Lunar gorge.

We release our safeties.

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