Eaves lead the weary in depths like the ocean
gently tilting up-side-down under the white eye
poking through the mid-twilight, supine, arms crisscrossed,
staid, like an opiate father time contained in a grandfather clock,
with whiskers that resemble clouds, apriori feathers glancing
into astronomers minds as moons circulate interwoven with
masked resolutions.
All his life he dreamed there was something,
but the nothing presides…
