iii.

As I stand there, not half awake,
the ocean-sky’s waves crash, divine —
and on the crest of clouds they take
this ghostly ship and make it mine.

✋🏼🧵

ii.

The belvedere peeks through the green,
stone vessel held in sylvan sway:
its quiet presence moored beneath
the restless clouds that rule the day.

I start to feel it lift from stone,
tall ship that waits for winds to rise,
its galleries a foredeck borne
by time that folds into the skies.

🧵👇🏼

iv.

There in the dark of the tunnel’s pathway,
I take my photograph from the drying line
and airbrush in a vast hub to say
that no matter the pic, my fate is mine.

✋🏼🧵

iii.

holds it there and I climb aboard.
No passengers here. It’s not a memory
that I'd choose to keep. It drives me toward
its last stop. Though it moves, it’s not free.

🧵👇🏼

ii.

As the red tram screeches through the gloom,
its blue-white lights pushing back the black,
the image develops in my mind’s darkroom,
in brain chemicals held fast. The track

🧵👇🏼

❓

ii.

in each starless eclipse felt
in night skies of my soul,
where bright memories melt
into my inward Sheol.

The mystery of faith
within black thoughts of mine:
that’s when my Jesus saith
I have my brush with the divine.

✋🏼🧵

Thank you! 🙏🏼☺️

iv.

The heavens release a growing downpour,
the old church finds itself baptized
from the cracks in its roof to marbled floor —
washing away sin before it’s eulogized.

✋🏼🧵

iii.

Above the Virgin and the crumbling church,
above the curved dome rising high,
the clouds spill rain from their morning perch,
dripping down into stone roof’s blue sky.

🧵👇🏼

ii.

Just beyond her, the high Baroque dome,
a domus Dei with its own painted heavens,
once filled with prayer, stands empty, alone —
its great mass now in silence unleavened.

🧵👇🏼

iv.

And in snowdrifts of ticking dreams,
the starry vault fills ’til the new day —
this ancient clock tells time between
our mortal world and worlds away.

✋🏼🧵

iii.

With zodiacal ring that glides,
its gilded hands held many an hour:
the heavens shift, the moments slide,
as night rekindles the morning star.

🧵👇🏼

ii.

Beneath cool ribs of stone it turns,
an astral wheel of painted grace.
Its lunar disk in silver burns
as time drips slowly in this place.

Carved saints proceed in incensed air,
their movements set by gears of gold —
a whispered psalm, a rhythmic prayer,
in cycles sung as new dawns unfold.

🧵👇🏼

Only sometimes? 😄

iii.

Through twilight lanes and silver glare,
he leads the way with glass-cut grace;
his face of fury slices air,
swift guardian of a vanished age.

✋🏼🧵

ii.

The engine hums beneath his rage,
a reliquary in cold steel set;
yet still he storms from age to age,
more talisman than ornament.

His frozen shout, a wind-whipped flame,
still parts the dust of drifting years;
the road remembers his lost name —
a ghost that glides on chrome and gears.

🧵👇🏼

iii.

For her there’s no Destry
to ride with again:
she carved out her destiny —
on no one she’d depend.

I read her full story
to my sweet little girl,
a tale of lived glory:
may her blue angel wings unfurl.

✋🏼🧵

ii.

Fine arching eyebrows,
glass-cut angular jaw,
her white-tie tuxedo
without a hint of a flaw,

her face on the screen
in wisps of blue smoke,
blue angel that’s free
of any dictator’s yoke.

🧵👇🏼