We All Fall Down

They are not birds

Black specks against a white sky

Pieces of a dream, rather,

Used fragments of an idea who expended

Her beauty in one raw gush

Not the smell of marshmallows

But the sweetness of the future

Taken in one breath

So thick as to choke the lungs

Dreams lit ambre and angry to lick the windows

And taste the seconds 

Not rainclouds 

Which cloak the sun, not mist

Not February snow

Nor even black cotton 

Pluming and bursting billows into the air with gasps of grief

What we are witnessing is the chances of time

The unanswered questions

Pulverized

By the heat of now.