I’m just an impulsive banshee sky,
in periwinkle blue.
mistaking streetlights for the sunrise
on the third of june.
I combed my hair in pastel honey,
ignoring the faux rays
for the sake of accepting sunny
predictions of a new day.
It’s this distant rooster’s cry,
in blistered stone
meditating to be ostracized
when already so alone.