In the darkening hours after work and play

a mystery emerges from the fading day,

born from the pool of shadows.

I linger, then casually sleep,

buried in a nest of dream so deep

that flaming sparrows seek me.

I grow malignant from their searing breath

that has me feast upon the angels flesh,

and dine upon their beauty.

I lose myself in the acrylic mountain,

the sun outlined in ink, the fountain

stretching miles into the wall, where it hangs in parallax.

To the left or right, maybe nowhere fit

came a distant voice from the sleeping prophet,

mesmerizing me from the phonograph.

Pausing now and then to let me sleep,

I search the silence of the sound so deep,

and grinning at remembered dreams.

Can it be that I am the egg

about to be stillborn

into the frying pan,

next to the tubular sausage?

-Justin Stone-

1972 – January 2, 2022