Heal the sky, he says.

Heal my mind.

Those desperate, beautiful, medicated eyes swimming.

Behind smudged glass

Aching for a single, sharp view through the greasy pane.

Scared to break out

Scarred by past refraction

A lead-light spectrum of agony

Stitched together where hooks once

Injected piercing teeth.

The lure calls yet.

Heal the sky.

Heal my mind.

Bryson Thomas