Tapestry

Stick figures in an internal landscape; vaguely representing voices in the electric field.
I am the cloud on your silver lining; the red rim on the shepherd’s warning.
You are the bared ends of copper in search of the source of resistance.
I am the reality teevee; the visual refuse that refuses to try.
You are the eyes of the blind man on the edge of the sky.
They are the fucked-up formations in shale quarried revolution.
We are the children of wonder; the pages of industrial action.
They are the chattering monkeys tree-bound and divided
We are the super-glued fingers on my left hand put right
He is the man with the eyes that point into his head
She is the woman whose hand reaches into your heart
He is the boy with the bullet holes who staggered the road
She is the girl with the green hair who danced until dawn
They are the parents who sit and determine their truth
We are the children who suffer the weight of regard
Fleshed out now no longer stick figures but the faces that reside in the field of dreaming.