Brian H. Appleton

 

Drowning in that desert of many petaled dead damask roses
in a sea of white mice, lice and broken chards of mirrors
am I the only jumping flea amongst the blue cut glass
here looking up into the inky black of night
where the stars whisper forever
... our unchosen names
til rosy dawn
but we
don't
hear
Would
that God
had given me
wings or a genetic
engineer had so I could soar
again above the ocean of sleepless
fishes lying in the troughs of rolling waves
while mother earth tosses and turns counting her long lost sheep
unable to sleep until every single one of her mother loving lambs is home