an airplane in the sky draws
letters of our names
inside a gigantic smoky heart.
when it's done it lands down
and we fade into bits
and pieces
of nothingness;
just air.
have we listened to
what we hear ourselves speak of?
not lies, but insist that we are storytellers,
we write fictions;
sincere contradictions.
we write reasons of treasons and they
all make sense.
