Stars in shades of navy, denim, cobalt, and pool circle my broken halo. My halo is made of an olive branch. In the almond flavored yellow light of disposable memories, my mother bakes pies for canaries. The coal mine in my heart has been unsealed, and the cutest bats fly out in an onyx symphony of mammalian, primal joy. The canaries sing alleluia in shifts. My halo sprouts thorns that grow into me, piercing my mulberry shaded thoughts with a steady stream of diagnosis for the recalcitrant weather. Soon my maker will sew me into the space time continuum with its vanilla integers in prim rows like headstones.
Miniature Moon 