all roads smell of kerosene
and you are your own worst enemy
in symbols, runes and broken windows
through telescopes of burning tyres
breathing black smoke, clouds with human faces
and a dog with three heads, lingering
my own doors are misted glass
they sweep wide with an electronic whisper
and this is my museum
i try to keep the violence to a low hum
but these defining moments
hang on rusted nails and quake against the walls
we find lost hopes and imaginings
wrapped up in these archetypes
and acceptance in the space between the cliches
