Perhaps the wind passing
the looms of a fractal face
is at the concert in a glass eye
and mechanical heart.
Receipt printed,
debatable usage of money,
God can't place the change
in your mind.
And still you go home and
climb into bed
or is it a studio of art,
crafting of love,
a lonely place.
The ghosts that sit
at the nebula of your skull
churn all your thoughts
preventing actions
like caution tape,
a barricade unlike brocade.
You or I, it's just me, the haunted one
and frowns at the becoming
tapestry that sketches the sunlight
of sky, I have woken up again.
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