A leading word from you,
a call from your clouds,
would flood me,
dry in the valleys
without you.
Eating smiles,
You leave your central home without thought.
You do not need shoes.
The world is bearing your hardships,
with broken kingdoms flapping in the wind.
Your heart considers me,
My high gloss weeping and homey pleading,
And donates your medicinal attention
elsewhere.
The clinging skin of hunting dogs
As they trespass on the neighborhood
hungry.
Keep me humble.
Food is an escape artist,
so I have built a gold vault
To secure it while I doze recklessly.
Not everyone has the materials
to do this.
It took me years.
Not everyone has the time.
Some homes shrink to caskets.
Some nations sink to graves.
The faces of the unfortunate
become corn seed.
Miniature Moon 