"White hawk"

hello! come read my poem

Here I am again; in the street.
It feels to me like...
being between fresh clean sheets.
Comfortable and soft, the pain of the pavement covered by black makeup.
That's where I wake up.
Every time.

The white hawk and owl-face.

The stumps, oh yeah the stumps.
Seems that the sap ran thin...
blown
into bubbles of wind, apart and alike
back again.
The black again.
Lack of oxygen.
Relapse...
flashes of camps and hostages.
Disaster and sinister laughter.
Earth shattered.
The dryest mouth in this world never closes.