THE HOURGLASS VOMITS DREAMS

I born.
mouth full of dirt,
crowned with worms,
called ugly
by a sky that bleeds clocks.
I begged the wind for mercy,
for the crime of breathing,
and love—love hid itself
beneath the rotting leaves.

KEEP YOUR DREAMS HIDDEN
(never
spill them)
like marbles
into the hands of ghosts—
their fingers rot,
their eyes burn holes
through time itself.

and the ears,
dry as desert bones,
curl inward
like paper shriveling in fire.

the tongues twist into serpents
and vomit
not words, but sand—
millions of grains
in an hourglass that spins,
spiraling faster, faster,
dissolving the moon’s reflection.

time is not a thief.
it is a snake devouring itself,
until the night becomes a shadow’s shadow,
bleeding stars.
aborted dreams
are all that’s left,
tangled in the sky’s black veins.