Wings

I ride the comets of eyes
who have died in their souls
and gone to debtor's purgatory.

Sketching the galaxies
they have dreamed,
seeing the secret heroes
they killed in their hearts because of risk.

Faithfully recording
each new addition
to lethargies funeral home,
cremation of conscience
handled
by a memo of nods
from morality's
customer service department.

It all gathers in a storm
blowing deserts into
the screamng chambers
of abandoned surrogates,
put on a layaway plan
at the mall
where they sell
paper wings with happy faces
air of their lies
the only sky being flown.