static

a long time ago it was a gift-

to see and hear every strain of static,

and to slip through untouched and untouchable phantom.

 

but there's the occasional snare and tangle-

the sound too beautiful not to hear,

the sight too powerful to turn away from-

 

a million or so feathered gods

scatter overhead-

a cacophony of skyline dispersion,

a dream in sweetest disguise.

 

and it all fades to snow on the television,

the rustle in the late-night a.m. radio tunings...

Done