Brushes of paint, palettes smudged
and abandoned to the stark, saccharine sun
cannot white-out out the errors
that overshadows the dulled of grays–
gray, gray as an inopportune autumn day,
a gloomy glaze hides the stubborn rays
that pierces the thin, flimsy blanket of urban decay–
fumes predominately repugnant
stealthy as a New York cab speeding by…
Beneath the splattered canvas of
sublime and swarthy ring of trees
lies the cumbersome and gnarly branches
Of urban neglect, birds of every shade,
sing profusely as they fall from the sky.
Wings clipped and eyes blind as the clouds shift and congeale:
The world of ready-made mistakes and langous silence,
trimmed with grief, and mixed with a relentless hunger
for a specific brand of suffering,
The idle watch by, screens-to-screen
As the sun cracks open like an egg
And angels descend from heaven’s gate,
feathers falling from the sky,
by the tons.
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 