There is a glass house

There is a glass house
where the lights can be turned on and off, whenever,
and never do you have to look to see
the whispering source of the winds;
like red from the sky raining down up inside your restful eyelids.
(Who is there you can look always to,
risen in your mind like scarlet sunsets frozen in time, captured at dawn,
there until the coldest eyes shudder shut
in the cleanest mirror of an open door you know,
splitting the seas, and parting the smiles?)

I’d rather lay outside,
read the bottoms of your emptiedĀ cups
and the stray of your stares off into the distance,
where I am awarded
lush blooms that know no winters,
most grateful gratitude tonight,
enchanting the airs and the seas far and wide.

He says he can’t live with it,
the poet in you,
so he dies writing it out until green
is his soul up to his eyes’ depth,
peering on to a pen shaped like a golden sword he bleeds horizons from.
(and his sights,
they blanket you
in smoothest sheets of day, unwinding,
made up of infinite light,
and endless streams of life.)

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