Desiderata

An image:
Streets filled in carmine
Spanish red and the taste of neon grit
Questions follow questions down to the paradox
While homeless as a drop I walk

Unbalanced in my heritage-
Bricks written dry

Rivers of words scribbled onto

The pages of leather-

I hear her rain pouring from inside, 

The streets screaming 
All that is desiderata has entered
A place,  free of faces,

Yet still burdened with names-
I turn to the ghostly road
A specter in the lens
I live in a world that doesn’t exist
Lips torn from the backseat of night
Graven and headlong 
Desperate as a fool myself
Unsightly in the night alone
Wounds forgotten, asleep up in the room 
White as the whitest rose, moonlit -
Alive in nothing but a gallery of one
And perhaps a few random visions- 
All that captures night and sleep empties me
Light walks ahead 

The street ripples 

My thoughts lost in the distance as
Each brick waters the grave and fondles my milieu.