There was if there wasn’t, if there was
a mist of a child called lightning.
His eye shifted beyond
the room. And his hands shattered existence
and the guitar screamed like glass. I played
for other wonderers who wandered past.
I was a child of thirteen they called me lightning.
My hands were a dream and my canvas were your tears.
My hands were tilled like Picasso as a Saint.
And my tears as I shifted stopped before the ghost
before the ghost…
September 